


The Desert's Kiss

by spinner33



Series: CM - AU [11]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/M, M/M, Some characters are only mentioned in passing and do not make a physical appearance, Western AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 15:10:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 53,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5168453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinner33/pseuds/spinner33
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU western set in 1875 in Southwest in fictional Boulder City.  </p><p>If you want an action story, read the first few chapters, then read the last three chapters.  If you want a long character study, read the stuff in between too. </p><p>This story takes place 137 years ago.  Please be forewarned that this story covers a range of sensitive topics: everything from the treatment of women, sexism, sexual assault, the treatment of people of color, racism, homosexuality, homophobia, war crimes, torture, murder, infanticide, and mental illness.  If any of these topics is a trigger for you, please do not read this story. </p><p>This story contains harsh language and local vernacular.  You might walk away saying 'reckon' and 'little' too much for a few days.</p><p>P.S. There was no FBI in 1875, so Hotch is a federal marshal instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May the Buzzards Choke on Every Bite

The pain from his knife wounds had chased most of the coherent thoughts out of Hotch’s brain, and the unrelenting heat was making his head spin nearly as much as the pain was. If the heat didn’t kill him first, the pain surely would.

“Marshal, have you already had enough?” the voice above him taunted. “I’m a little surprised. Thought you were tougher than that. You haven’t chased me around for all these years to stop on me now, have you, Marshal?”

Hotch started with surprise at the use of his title, and he groaned in reply. That rough, gravely sound produced an orgasmic expression on the face that swam into view. George Foyet was too close, too personal, sitting on Hotch’s hips and thighs as he used his blade to carve up the Marshal’s bare chest. Foyet’s obvious delight with his handiwork filled Hotch with nausea and black rage.

“Why do you continue doing this to yourself? Why do you follow me this way? Why? Are you sweet on me, Marshal? I have heard the rumors about you. Is that why you follow me like you do? You’re not still upset about Haley and Jack, are you? That was years ago, Marshal. It’s time you let go.”

Aaron let his eyes drift closed. Maybe it was the pain. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the horrible embarrassment that was riding up his spine, turning his stomach to cold jelly. Maybe it was the fact that Foyet was licking the blade of his weapon, and was making some joke to the unseen audience in his head. Hotch let his eyes drift shut, and he dreamed of sunshine, and green leaves, and the smell of lavender.

As he was going under, Hotch thought he might have heard gunshots ringing out from the rock walls around them. Foyet cursed loudly and stumbled back from him, then cried out in pain. Hotch should have fought back to consciousness to find out what was going on, but there really wasn’t any reason to go on with this, was there? He was allowed to admit defeat, wasn’t he? He could let himself die here, in the desert, in the heat. May the buzzards on choke on every bite.

There was no shame in that – every man met his eventual end. It wasn’t like Hotch had anything to live for beyond revenge. He had already lost everything that had ever meant something to him. He wanted to see Haley and Jack again. He knew they were waiting for him beyond the grave. He wanted to feel complete again, and he was sure he was only going to find that completeness in his death.

Who the hell was picking him up off the ground? This simply wasn’t possible. Hotch was ready to die. He wanted to die. He complained with a grunt and a swing of his fist.

“My word, Marshal. You’re right solid,” someone grunted in his ear as they struggled to lift him.

Hotch was being dragged upright, not gently either. He was pushed against a horse’s rump, and draped unceremoniously over the animal. He was secured to the saddle like so much luggage. The rider mounted the animal, and they hurried off. Each gallop sent shockwaves of pain through Hotch’s wounded body, and darkness claimed him at last.


	2. Miss Jennifer's Brothel and Boarding House

It was almost ten by the time they reached the nearest town, Boulder City. It wasn’t more than a small town in this desert landscape, a spot of respite. There was a railroad depot, a hotel, a stable and saddlery, a post office and bank, a general store, and two or three big houses, one of which served as a boarding house, saloon, and brothel all in one.

The rider guided his horse up the incline towards the hotel, but as he was going past the porch of the boarding house, a woman called out to him. He stopped in his tracks.

“Where you off to, Doc? Come on over here, and be sociable with me.”

Reluctantly Doc wandered her direction. She was lounging there on a rocker, fanning herself with her straw hat. She had her thin blouse half-undone, and had one bony leg tossed over the arm of the rocker in a manner she must have hoped was alluring. Doc focused strictly on her face, adjusting the strap on the satchel that he wore from his left shoulder slung across to his right hip.

“I need a room at the hotel, Miss Jennifer.”

“I can get you a room here instead,” she said. “Damn hot, isn’t it, Doc?” the blonde drawled. Implicit in that offer was the notion that if he didn’t stop here, she was going to be spreading news all over town that he had come riding through with a wounded man slung over his saddle.

“That would be nice of you. I suppose it is pretty hot,” he replied, knowing he had no choice in the matter. But maybe there was a bright side in this situation, however irritating this part might have been. Miss Emily was very good with needles and thread.

“If I wasn’t worried about offending sensitive folk, I’d take this shirt right off,” Miss Jenifer threatened, just to see him blush. “The room will cost you three dollars,” she replied, putting her hat back on.

“I need a room, not a girl.”

“Whether you need a girl or not, Doc, the room will cost you three dollars.”

He paused for a small smirk. His temper flared hot for a moment, but he repressed his angry response to her torment. Sweetness would win the day faster than irritation, so he did his best to remain sweet, no matter how much he itched to tell Miss Jennifer to shut her mouth, look the other way, and mind her own business.

“You mean to tell me, if I want to take a room at your establishment but I don’t want the company of one of your girls, that I still have to pay the going-rate for a room as if the girl was included?”

Doc climbed stiffly down from his horse (damn it, he hated using a saddle) and checked the pulse on the man he had thrown across (well, actually dragged up and draped across) the hindquarters of the patient animal. The blazing sun and summer heat wasn’t making any of them smell better. At least the man’s wounds had stopped bleeding though.

“Doctor Reid, if you want a room, it will cost you three dollars, girl or not, just like everyone else,” the mistress of the establishment insisted firmly.

“All right. If the room costs the same whether I need a girl or not, I will have a girl with that room, please. Plus accommodations for Hal here.”

“Stable space for your horse comes with the room. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of your gelding for you.”

“Hal is not a gelding,” he corrected her.

“Silly me,” Miss Jennifer gasped playfully. She knew damned well what kind of horse he was riding, but she was never one to miss an opportunity to get a jab in when she saw an opening, particularly with someone she saw as her inferior. There were days when it was all Doc could do not to drag her to the nearest bucket of water and drown her like the over-bred barn cat she was. Of course in these parts, that would have been a terrible waste of water, drowning someone that way.

“You are anything but silly,” Doc murmured.

“Why ask for a girl? You’ve never asked for one before,” she remarked as she got up from her chair on the porch and moved down the steps. She walked with a slight bow to her legs, but it wasn’t due to riding horses.

“First time for everything,” Reid murmured.

“What do you plan to do with her, anyways?” she tormented.

Reid gave her a dirty look, which only made her smile strengthen.

“Send me the Countess,” he requested. 

“She’s special. She’ll cost you five dollars.”

“Worth every penny, I’m sure,” Doc remarked, producing five coins and giving them to the mistress of the house.

“Are these real?” Miss Jennifer stammered as she turned the coins over and over in her tiny palm.

“I imagine they are,” Reid replied, undoing the bindings that were holding the injured man on his horse. The load came down hard and heavy, nearly collapsing the younger, slighter man under the weight.

“Who is your friend?” she scowled, watching the thin man struggle to pull the unconscious man upright and into a position where he was semi-portable. A stable hand appeared and led the doctor’s horse away.

“He’s a federal marshal. Could you show me the way before I hurt myself and him even further? Thanks,” Reid purred, hoisting Hotch up on one shoulder and tightening an arm around his waist.

“He’s not going to die up there, is he?” Miss Jennifer complained as she sauntered across the empty bar room and headed for the stairs. She was rightfully concerned. Although it was early in the day, and customers had not yet begun to fill the establishment, news of a dead man in the brothel would not go over well with the usual clientele—the miners from the camp three miles beyond town. A dead man could put quite a somber mood on the evening, and somber people did not spend money as fast or as frequently as happy people did.

“He’s not going to die if I can tend to his wounds quickly. Where is the Countess? I’m going to need her help.”

“Drop him in here. He sure doesn’t look like a federal marshal to me,” she remarked with a disgruntled snort as Doc laid Hotch carefully down on the bed. “Kinda dirty and scruffy to be a government man. Marshal, my ass.”

“You wanna see his badge?” Reid asked.

“See that he doesn’t die in here, and smell the place up,” Miss Jennifer grumbled. Reid shooed her out of the room and closed the door. He quickly set to work.


	3. That'll Cost You A Lot More Than Five Dollars

By the time the Countess arrived, Reid had stripped the Marshal of his boots and most of his clothes, and had started washing his wounds with the water from the pitcher and basin on the dresser. Once he had cleaned the six knife wounds, they could set about closing the cuts.

A sleepy, raven-haired woman stumbled into the room, clearly having been awakened too early after last night’s goings-on. She pushed her dark hair out of her face and gasped when she recognized the young man. His startled eyes traveled down her state of undress and back up again to her face. She wasn’t wearing more than thin underclothes and a corset over the top. Had she slept in that thing? His ribs hurt in sympathy. Or had she thrown on what she was wearing because…..

“Doc, what are you doing in this place?” the Countess gasped, putting one hand up to her breasts. Reid flashed her an embarrassed smile and averted his eyes from her near-nakedness. “Miss Jennifer said I had a customer. She did not say it was you. I apologize.”

“No harm done, Miss Emily,” he blushed. “I need your sewing skills.”

“The way I feel this morning, that’ll cost you a whole lot more than five dollars.”

Reid rifled through his satchel and handed her a small vial. She shook the contents and gave him a suspicious look.

“For your headache,” he explained. “Mix a pinch or two with a glass of water and drink it.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, digging into Hotch’s pants and giving the Marshal’s wallet to the Countess. It contained ten dollars and a golden badge. The ten dollars disappeared somewhere into Miss Emily’s corset. Then she opened the badge and recoiled with alarm, dropping it on the floor. She looked at the golden star on the hard planks under her feet as if it was a spider she should step on.

“He has wounds that need tending, and I know how handy you are with a needle and thread,” Reid pleaded.

“What happened to him?”

“It’s a long story. Can you help us?”

“I’ll get my sewing kit,” Miss Emily sighed.

“Thank you.” Reid was relieved to finally be seeing a bit of cooperation.

The Countess opened the door to a sea of curious faces. Doc was not happy that the unconscious Marshal was the center of all this attention. Reid got up to close the door. He paused with about enough space to talk through and not close his head in.

“Who could fetch me a bottle of whiskey?” he asked the six women assembled at the shabby wooden portal.

“You got any money?” one of them asked skeptically.

Reid dug around in his trouser pockets, and his vest pocket, and down inside his satchel. He came up with two dollars and three cents in odd coinage.

“I’ll see what I can do,” one replied, snatching the cash from him and disappearing back down the steps.

The Countess was returning. She had slipped out of her corset and into a fashionable but simple cotton dress.

“Show me where he hurts,” she said, motioning to the body on the bed.


	4. Do You Want to Tell Him What Happened to His Money?

“Where did you pick up this stray dog? And don’t tell me ‘it’s a long story’,” the Countess added as she was drawing a final dark thread through the eye of her large darning needle. She was down to the last wound, and was kneeling on the bed over the prone man. It hadn’t taken her much time at all to stitch the Marshal up. Reid had been right to bring him here for help.

“I was nosing around Misery Trail about seven this morning, coming back from the Paulson place, when I saw George Foyet hunched over him, taunting him with a knife. The Marshal must have been sleeping when the Captain fell upon him. I’m surprised he survived at all,” Doc answered, washing Hotch’s face even though it was perfectly clean already. Reid lingered over the dark-haired stranger, gazing down into his features as if he could read the future there. His lovelorn sighs did not go unnoticed by the Countess.

“Foyet, huh?” she questioned. “Why am I not surprised?” 

“I was careful that he didn’t see me,” Reid protested.

“You better hope not. He’ll come after you next. Surely you haven’t forgotten what he did to Mina.”

“No, I hadn’t forgotten about poor Mina. I don’t believe the Captain saw me,” Doc answered distantly. Hotch was stirring. The Countess nipped off the last dark thread with her small, sharp scissors, and got up off the side of the bed.

“Why would Foyet leave him alive?” she wondered, tidying up the sewing kit and tucking it away in a small wooden box. “George is not widely known for his mercy.”

“A cat with a full stomach doesn’t kill every mouse right away,” Doc answered, “especially a mouse who might provide amusement.”

Hotch was sleeping fitfully, mouthing words and moving his eyes at the restless dreams behind his closed lids.

“If this one let himself get caught alone on Misery Trail, he’s clearly not from around here. Everyone knows you don’t go through there by yourself, let alone sleep there overnight,” the Countess said.

“Why do you think I waited till dawn to start out from the Paulson place?” Reid replied.

“Unless the Marshal’s plan was to lay in wait for Foyet there,” Miss Emily pondered.

“We won’t know what his plan was until he wakes up and tells us,” Reid said.

“If he wakes up,” the Countess interjected.

“He’ll wake up. It goes without saying that you and the rest of the girls need to keep quiet about the Marshal’s presence here. I’m taking him to my place when he can travel, but that will be tomorrow at the earliest.”

“Morgan is sure to be thrilled about you dragging him home,” she smirked. “How is Morgan getting along? Wish he’d visit more often.”

“It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy your company. In fact, he prefers your company to almost anyone else around. But he’s been minding the place for a couple days while I’ve been helping Mrs. Paulson,” Reid admitted. The Countess paused, looked down at her hands, and back up again.

“How’s Callie getting along?” she asked nervously.

“Growing fast. Cute as a button,” Reid answered, a fond smile tracing his young face.

A girlish giggle interrupted their conversation. Although the door to the room was closed, there were two young women in their underclothes perched on the balcony to the room, peering unabashedly through the open window.

“You do know the only way you’re going to buy their silence is with money, right?” the Countess remarked.

Reid would have gotten up to close the window and draw the curtains, but Hotch was stirring again. Doc waited anxiously for the Marshal to open his eyes.

“Hope he’s got more money stashed in those clothes, because I am fresh out of funds,” Reid lamented.

“Where’s his horse? Where’s his gun?” Miss Emily observed.

“Must have lost them in the struggle for Foyet,” Reid decided.

“There’ll be a poker game or two tonight downstairs. Get yourself cleaned up, and you could win more than enough money to make Miss Jennifer and the other girls forgetful,” she suggested.

“I don’t think I ought to be leaving him alone for too long. What if he should need something? He could develop a fever. He could get an infection. I should be here,” Reid whispered, running his hand over the Marshal’s dark hair.

“He’ll be fine,” the Countess murmured, rolling her eyes at Doc. She retrieved the ten dollar bill out of her clothes, and gave it back to the young man. “Seed money. Make it grow for me, baby.”

“Words I don’t often hear from a lady,” Reid mused uncomfortably as he tucked the bill into his vest pocket. The Countess chuckled. She bent across Hotch’s prone form and brushed her fingertips to Reid’s chin and cheek. His face went red, and he curled bashfully away from the touch.

“I thought Miss Jennifer said…” Miss Emily started. 

“What did Miss Jennifer say?” Reid worried.

“She’s been telling people you were injured in the War, that you can’t perform for a woman, only as a woman.”

“Is that what she told you?” The doctor’s voice went high and tight.

“It is.”

“Miss Jennifer needs to stop prowling around the tub room at Miss Penelope’s hotel, peeping at the customers there, or someone is going to accidently shoot her right between those pretty blue eyes of hers,” Reid frowned. Miss Emily blinked, surprised at such venom from him.

“Was Miss Jennifer lying?” she persisted.

“Let me put it this way. Miss Jennifer told me you said you were a countess from Romania who was only working for her long enough to earn passage back to Europe. That was three years ago. Are you saving for first-class passage, or do you plan to buy the entire ship?”

“How dare she!” the Countess growled.

“That woman ain’t nothing but a gossipy bitch. You can’t believe half of anything she tells you,” Doc insisted. The Countess’s dark brown eyes traveled over his form and back up to his hurt expression.

“I’m not from Romania. Remember? I’m from St. Louis,” she said.

“Yes, I remember. Missouri – the Show-Me State,” he whispered.

“Indeed, it is. The Show-Me State,” she echoed, glancing down at his mid-section and back up again to his face. He frowned at her, but he was fighting a tiny smile once more.

“Ma’am, as tempted as I might be to satisfy your lurid curiosity and end all the malicious gossiping, we now have an audience of four, excuse me,” he murmured, glancing downward. “Five,” he amended, raising his eyes to her again and backing away from her.

The Countess dropped her gaze to the prone man in the bed. Hotch’s dark eyes were open, and he was watching their conversation, and he looked terribly annoyed, probably because they were both leaning over his chest.

“Do you want to explain to the man what happened to his money?” Reid whispered.

The Countess backed up and away from the bed. “I’ll be going. The law and me have never seen eye-to-eye,” she stammered.

“Could I trouble you to pluck the crows from their perch?” Reid asked, pointing backwards to the growing group on the balcony. “While I’m at it, don’t you be spreading any rumors about what Miss Jennifer told you.”

The Countess raced out the door, slamming it behind. Shortly thereafter, the balcony began to clear, one disgruntled woman at a time. Miss Emily was pulling them back inside from the balcony on the room next door. Through the thin walls, Doc could hear every one of them complaining loudly about the Countess taking on royal airs, as if she was their better.


	5. Pleased to Make Your Acquaintance

“Where am I?” Hotch gulped dryly. The young man above him washed his face with a gentle touch.

“That depends on who you ask, and how specific an answer you need.”

Hotch frowned at him. He was obviously in no mood for guessing games.

“So thirsty,” the Marshal whispered. A glass of cool water appeared. The young man put an arm behind Hotch’s neck and held the glass while Hotch drank. Reid watched the Marshal anxiously.

“Better?”

“Yes. Thank you,” Hotch replied.

“You’re in the State of Nevada, which used to be called Washoe, which is kinda nice really. Don’t know why they voted to change that. And in case you’re curious, although the mountains are properly pronounced the Sierra NeVAda, around here, we prefer that you pronounce our state Nevaaada,” Reid answered as he retrieved Hotch’s wallet and badge from the floor, and put them on the rough-hewn table beside the bed.

Hotch was frowning as he glanced down the bed. “I know what state I’m in, for fuck’s sake. I meant where in…. oh, nevermind. Where are my clothes?”

“Over there. If you’re nice to Miss Emily, she’ll stitch them up for you. Where are you headed, Marshal? Why would you let Captain Foyet creep up on you out at Misery Trail? Were you trying to get yourself killed?” Reid asked.

“It’s my job.”

“Getting yourself killed?” Reid asked with wide eyes. 

“Tracking Foyet. I’ve got a warrant to bring him in.” 

“On what charges?”

“He stands accused of murder in four states and the District of Columbia.”

“Only five murder charges? He’s killed more people than that since he arrived in these parts seven months ago,” Reid frowned. “Been directly involved in causing a woman to commit self-harm as well. He attacked one of Miss Jennifer’s girls, messed up her face because she had disappointed him in bed. More likely, he had disappointed her. I did the best I could fixing her, but Miss Mina hung herself in despair over having her pretty face ruined.”

“My job is to bring Foyet back to Washington to face federal charges,” Hotch said.

“Oh, federal charges. I suppose you feel federal charges are a lot more important than justice for some whore who hung herself because she couldn’t bear to look in the mirror and remember how pretty she used to be,” Doc said, his face showing the disappointment he felt.

“That’s not what I said,” Hotch defended as he reached for his badge and wallet, no doubt to check for his money. He was visibly angry when he realized his wallet was empty.

“Sorry,” Reid murmured.

“That was all I had between me and destitution. I haven’t been able to make contact with the other federal marshal that was supposed to meet me in Colorado Springs. I got delayed coming out of Independence because of a quarantine situation. He left word that he would go on ahead without me, meet me around here. But I haven’t seen any sign of him. We received intelligence saying that Foyet had settled in these parts. How am I supposed to follow Foyet now?” Hotch hissed.

“Are you a religious man, Marshal?”

“Sorry. Not especially,” Hotch answered, narrowing his eyes. He had sympathy for the calming effect that religion had for some people, but he was equally frustrated with how so much of the evil that human beings perpetrated against one another was done in the name of their supposed faith. The doctor gave him an unreadable nod.

“Doesn’t mean you don’t have morals. Doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate right from wrong.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Hotch agreed.

“It’s what’s in your heart that matters, isn’t it? My momma used to say that the Lord will provide.”

“The Lord and I haven’t been on speaking terms since my wife and son died,” Hotch murmured. No need to go into messy details.

“I am sorry for your loss, sir.”

“I… thank you…” Hotch whispered. The young man nodded.

“If it’s any consolation, the money was well spent. It paid for this bed, this room, and for the services of a nurse to stitch you up. It bought the promise of at least soup and bread tonight. Maybe even one of Miss Penelope’s gooseberry pies, if you’re lucky. You must be hungry.”

“I am hungry,” Hotch admitted sheepishly.

“Once you’re well enough, I’ll take you to my place. It’s an hour’s ride,” the young man said as he pointed east. “That won’t be until tomorrow at the earliest, I would guess. I gotta send word to a friend to expect us, and then I’ll see what I can do to recover your working capital for you.”

Reid handed him the bottle of whiskey.

“Here. This will help with the pain, but don’t drink it all at once. I’d like a nip when I come back.”

“Take my advice, and have that nip before you go,” Hotch whispered.

Reid smiled and popped the top off the bottle. He took a quick gulp, then gave the bottle to Hotch.

“Doctor Spencer Reid,” he said, offering his hand.

“Federal Marshal Aaron Hotchner,” Hotch replied, shaking the offered hand and marveling at the smoothness of it.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Marshal Hotchner.” Reid was blushing hot in spite of his best efforts to contain himself. Why did this man make him so very weak in the knees? It didn’t help that the Marshal was caressing his hand the way he was.

“My friends call me ‘Hotch’,” the Marshal added, still holding on. He was reluctant to let go. He was remembering a pianist he had once guarded while the musician toured around cities on the East Coast: New York, Philadelphia, Washington, Richmond, Atlanta, Charleston. Hotch recalled with a depressed sigh the cinnamon taste of his kisses, the honeyed voice with which he spoke, and the ivory perfection of his unblemished skin. It wasn’t meant to be anything beyond what it had been – one night of bliss in the concealing darkness, a sweet and desperate secret kept for a lifetime. But the encounter had haunted Hotch’s dreams ever since.

Hotch had met Haley at the final concert in Philadelphia. She hadn’t tasted of cinnamon, or spoken with a honeyed voice, and she hadn’t been perfection itself. She was all bony knees and elbows and angles, a lot like Doc was, actually, Hotch realized. Haley and her sister Jessica both were rough girls who had spent more time in the sun than they had tending their sewing. Haley had had a laugh like a horse. Hotch smiled just to think about her laugh, the way it had carried across a room. Maybe that was what he had liked about her. Her imperfections had made her perfect for him. She had nearly erased the memory of that beautiful, unavailable musician, and that was what Hotch had most needed.

Aaron and Haley had spent several beautiful years together. They had had a son named Jack, and they had found about as much happiness together as two people on this planet could hope for. But that was gone now. All of it had been erased by the cruel blade of Captain George Foyet. Hotch winced, shaking away the memories because they hurt almost as badly as the knife wounds in his chest.

“Hotchner. Is that Scottish?” Reid asked.

“Maybe Scottish. Maybe German. What do your friends call you?”

“Doc or Reid.”

“Doc, I’m grateful to you for your help, but I can’t lie around in bed like this, letting Foyet get further and further away. I’m grateful, but I have to be going. I’ve got a job to do,” Hotch said as he tried to sit up and get out of bed.

Reid cocked a half-smile and put a hand up on the Marshal’s chest to keep him still. Hotch was almost sitting up, and he looked like he might be spoiling for a fight, his nose an inch from Reid’s cheek. His hot breath scorched worse than noon-day sun. He was frowning, growling almost. Reid studied Hotch’s angry features, and felt a tremble take his own spine and run straight down to his groin. His heart thumped loudly in his chest.

“Don’t fret, Marshal. Old George isn’t getting too far,” Reid offered, lowering his voice, and lowering his eyes.

A shy smile warmed Reid’s face. Hotch studied his features, and he understood why the young man kept a couple days of beard stubble on his face. There was a faint scar on his right eyebrow, another on his cheek, another on his chin. The one on his cheek looked to have been made with the business end of a bullwhip. Maybe the doctor was self-conscious about his scars. They honestly didn’t detract from the aura of innocent kindness and androgynous beauty that echoed around him.

Hotch couldn’t stop staring at him, and his scrutiny was making the other man jumpy. The doctor had amazing eyes, a golden brown color like an amber necklace that Haley used to wear. He had long eyelashes too. Hotch watched those shy eyes raise up and drop again. He thought his anger was making the young man nervous. The fact that he was making Reid nervous made Hotch self- conscious about his anger. Aaron struggled to pull his emotions in check.

“How do you know what Foyet is up to?” Hotch asked, wanting to be patient.

Reid lowered his voice even further when he said, “I wounded him in the right leg before he was able to get on his horse and get away. He’s gonna need a doctor, and there isn’t another doctor but me for miles around. So either he’s going to track me down, or he’s going to go to Flagstaff, or all the way to Carson City. It all depends on how long he can stand the pain of a bullet in the thigh, the loss of blood. I guess it depends too on whether or not I managed to fracture his femur. I am not the best shot, so I can’t make any promises on that account. There are so many variables to take into consideration, but suffice it to say, Marshal, that you can relax here for one day, and trust in knowing that the Captain is in as much of a fix as you are in.”

“What kind of doctor shoots a man in the leg?” Hotch asked.

“I wasn’t after his leg,” Reid drawled impishly. “But my hands were shaking, and he moved at the last second. I was lucky to get him in the thigh.”

Hotch didn’t have to think too long or hard to realize where the doctor had been aiming – for Foyet’s groin. Maybe he had hoped to hit his femoral artery. Or maybe Reid was more sadistic than that innocent face and those kind eyes indicated.

“What kind of doctor has to ask a whore to stitch up wounds for him?” Hotch murmured, caressing the closest zigzag, and willing the pain away. “Do you often keep company with whores?”

“Suppose you think a man should decide whose company to keep based on public opinion of their occupation? I keep company with all sorts of people, Marshal, and I don’t ask them what they do for a living before I decide if they’re worthy of my company.”

“Point taken,” Hotch acknowledged the polite dressing-down.

“Miss Emily makes far tidier stitches than I do. Your scars will be smaller. Less noticeable,” Doc promised, thumbing one wound with a tender touch. Hotch fell silent and shy at the whisper-like caress.

“Are you really a doctor?” the Marshal asked as if he expected the answer to be something other than yes.

“I wasn’t trained in a university, if that’s what you’re asking. Ironically enough, the War taught me how to murder and how to heal as well. Since the War, I’ve read every medical text I could get my hands on. Actually, I am a doctor, just not a medical doctor, at least, not a certified medical doctor. I do have three doctorates. My degrees are in engineering, mathematics, and chemistry. Oh hell, Marshal, you’re alive, aren’t you? What are you complaining about if I haven’t got a sheepskin that says I can make your heart palpitate, or that I’m able to find your gizzard?”

“Humans don’t have gizzards,” Hotch pointed out, testing the doctor’s temper. Reid’s hazel eyes narrowed. Aaron wanted to tell him that his heart was palpitating quite nicely, but didn’t dare. There was something dangerous in the young man’s gaze before he softened it.

“If this is your subtle way of expressing your gratitude for me saving your miserable ass, you’re welcome,” Reid drawled.

“You learned medicine during the War? Which side did you fight on? What battles were you in?” Hotch asked, taking a sip of whiskey and coughing from the burn. That of course made his chest hurt worse. He rolled his eyes closed and steadied himself as dizziness tried to drag him back under. Reid helped him lie back down, folding the sheet over his chest and tucking it close to him.

“You sound skeptical, Marshal.”

“You don’t look old enough to have served. You couldn’t have been more than a child ten years ago. Were you a drummer boy? Were you a powder monkey? Were you a courier? Maybe your family was rich, and they could buy you an officer’s commission from the start? Were you an aide de camp for one of the senior officers?”

“I was a soldier, like everybody else who wore a uniform. We all served our purpose,” Doc defended.

Hotch took one of the young man’s hands again.

“These hands have never loaded a gun in the heat of battle, slipped with the ball and shot, missed with the ramrod. You didn’t stand shaking in your boots, piss and fear running down your leg, as the enemy charged towards you, their eyes blazing with hate, their guns at the ready. You haven’t dodged cannon balls, or watched them rip your best friend’s leg right off his body. You didn’t hold his hand, watch him bleed to death while you screamed for help and tried in vain to stem his life’s blood, your hand wrist deep in his ripped body. You aren’t any kind of soldier I’ve ever encountered, not with hands like this,” Hotch murmured to gauge Reid’s reaction. The young man cocked a lazy, thin smile, but his eyes were filled with wounded anger.

“One more remark like that, and I’ll shoot you in the thigh,” the doctor warned with dark humor lighting his face.

“Where did you serve? What regiment?” 

“Let’s save the conversation about my military misadventures for another time. It’s a very long story. If you’ll excuse me,” Doc said, tipping his hat to Hotch. “I’ll see to finding you some food that will hold you for a while, and I’ll ask if anyone around town has seen hide or hair of Captain Foyet. You rest. You sleep. Don’t tear those wounds, you restless brute.”

Hotch stifled a quiet chuckle. Brute. Haley had called him that once when she was mad at him, but from Doc Reid, the word had been playful, even generous with warmth and humor. It had been a term of endearment.

It had been a long time since someone had used a term of endearment with Hotch, and he wasn’t quite sure how to take it.


	6. The Countess' Tale

The dark-haired woman returned to Hotch’s room before Doctor Reid did. She wasn’t all bad for company, the Marshal decided, even if she did introduce herself as the Countess. She wasn’t anymore a countess than Hotch was, but he was willing to play along, because she had brought a covered, porcelain plate filled with an entire roasted chicken and several small baked potatoes. She presented him with the plate while looking damned hungry herself. Hotch struggled to get himself upright, and he immediately started splitting the bounty of food with her.

“Thank you, ma’am, for all your help,” Hotch said, pointing to his chest. He had put his shirt back on but had left his pants over the back of the chair beside the bed. She seated herself on the end of his bed instead of taking the chair.

“If you give me your shirt, I’ll mend and clean it for you,” Miss Emily offered. Was that her way of repaying him for taking his money? He wasn’t too proud to accept her sideways apology. Hotch put down his chicken leg and pulled his shirt off, giving it to her.

“Is all this compliments of Doc Reid?” he asked, stuffing more food in his mouth. Fresh, hot poultry dripping with juices had never tasted so good in all his life.

Miss Emily nodded, her mouth full of food as well. They ate like winter-starved wolves, with their messy hands and dirty fingers, all teeth and appetite.

“Where’d he get a chicken?” Hotch laughed. 

“He went to Mr. Rossi at the general store.”

“Mr. Rossi?” Hotch questioned. “Do they normally keep chickens at the general store these days?”

“Doc asked Rossi’s stock-boy to go out to his place to let his hand Morgan know he’d be late and why, and while the stock-boy was gone, Doc helped Mr. Rossi finish inventory, and balance his books. Money-handling and taking inventory does not seem to be Mr. Rossi’s forte, which strikes me as an odd failing in a New York grocer man. Why the hell would he come all the way out here to set up a new general store? I mean, it’s a right strange thing to be doing if you aren’t any good with money or taking stock. Out of the ordinary,” the Countess decided.

“Odd indeed,” Hotch agreed with her.

“Then Doc went over to Miss Penelope’s hotel and restaurant, and ordered this up for you,” Miss Emily explained. “Paid her with the money that Mr. Rossi gave him for helping with the inventory and the books.”

“Where’s he at now?” Hotch asked, licking his fingers, diving in for more.

“He and Mr. Rossi are over chewing the fat with Anderson at the bank. It’s also the post office. The telegraph office too. Doc likes to play with the telegraph when Anderson lets him. Being as Doc is the one who assembled it when it arrived from Denver, arrived without instructions no less, it only seems fair that Doc should get to play with it now and then. I suspect he’ll also be helping Anderson sort the mail and get the bag ready for the train which will be here later today around dinner time.”

“Where is Doc headed after? Milk the cows? Mill the flour? He is a man of many talents, it would seem.”

“Don’t you make fun of him. He’s a good man,” Miss Emily chided.

Hotch lowered his head and nodded, allowing himself to be chastised. In truth, he had felt guilty the second the words popped out of his mouth.

“I hope he’ll be bringing his skinny self back here after that. He’s gotta win a few card games and earn some money if he has any hopes of paying off Miss Jennifer and getting some money for you,” the Countess added.

“He doesn’t owe me anything,” Hotch blushed, shaking his head.

“Yes, he does. You’re chasing down Captain Foyet, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Reid knows Foyet?” Hotch seized on the information like a hunting hound on a fresh scent. The Countess read his eagerness, and it made her cautious.

“Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this,” she decided shyly.

“No, you should tell me everything, everything you know,” Hotch encouraged, giving her more chicken, which she ate readily. “How does Reid know Foyet? Why does he call him ‘Captain’? Did they serve together?”

“Not fucking hardly,” Miss Emily snorted. “Doc Reid made Captain Foyet’s acquaintance during the War, and it was not at an ice cream social. They were on opposite sides of a prison interrogation room, and Doc was on the short end of that stick. Worst of all, Captain Foyet is responsible for Doc’s mother’s death.”

“I didn’t realize,” Hotch blanched. “So Foyet killed her?”

Memories went through Hotch’s mind of his home in Washington, coming back after another fruitless search for Foyet, only to find the front door ajar, the servants scattered. The parlor had been covered in blood. Haley’s lifeless body had been sprawled obscenely on the floor. Foyet had taken his time with her, causing as much pain as he possibly could. Their son Jack, no more than four, was lying dead near to his mother. Aaron had always had the horrible suspicion that Foyet had wounded Haley first but left her alive long enough to watch him dispatch Jack. They had been there for several days by the time he had found them. Jack’s face had been contorted with pain. Had Haley died right away too, or had she lingered, in physical and mental agony? The horror of their last minutes on Earth had haunted Hotch ever since. It hung over his head, over his moods, over his life, almost as visible as a real phantasm. On the day that Hotch had found his wife and son dead, chasing George Foyet had turned from his job into his life’s purpose, his only reason for continuing to exist. Hotch closed his eyes and unconsciously put a hand to his heart.

“You all right, Marshal?” Miss Emily asked.

“Fine,” he whispered, but she had seen the ghosts in his eyes, and in her heart of hearts, she felt pity for him.

“Sorry to upset you. Foyet didn’t take after Mrs. Reid with a blade like he did you, but that monster is responsible for her death, on account of what he did to Doctor Reid. Doc was close to his mother – loved her very much.”

“What did Foyet do to Reid?” Hotch worried.

“Maimed him for life, at least that’s what Miss Jennifer says,” Miss Emily whispered, lowering her voice and darting her eyes towards the window to make sure no one heard what she said. “Haven’t seen the injuries myself. No one has, except maybe Morgan, but he’s not talking.”

“What kind of injuries?” Hotch asked. The Countess looked blatantly at Hotch’s lap, and back up at his face. She didn’t have to say anything else.

“Morgan was there with Doc when he returned home from the War. Mrs. Reid saw what Foyet had done to her baby boy, and she had a nervous breakdown. She never recovered her senses. They had to put her away in an asylum back in Virginia. That’s where the doctor’s family was living at the time,” Miss Emily said.

“That’s horrible,” Hotch whispered. Emily frowned.

“I don’t know. Virginia sounds all right to me, if you like tobacco, and trees, and farms, and rich, Southern gentlemen.”

“No. The asylum. That’s horrible. I love Virginia. I’m from Virginia,” Hotch clarified. Miss Emily nodded grimly.

“So which side did you fight on?” she demanded tersely. 

“My sympathies lay steadfastly above the Mason-Dixon Line, ma’am,” Hotch replied.

“Better make that clear to Doc, so he doesn’t put a hole through you,” she recommended. “He’s right sensitive on the topic.”

“Does Doc have any family left in Virginia?”

“Not his mother. Mrs. Reid never recovered from the shock of what Foyet had done to her son, and she died a couple years after Doc’s father put her away.”

“Where is his father now?”

“Don’t know. Might be in Virginia, I suppose. He’s a lawyer. A smart man. But Doctor Reid is even smarter. Suppose too smart for his own good at times,” Miss Emily murmured. “Doc’s got an uncle. Can’t remember his name. Nice man. He came through once. About as tall and thin as Doc is. Handsome man. You could see the resemblance. But he had blond hair and blue eyes. Daniel. That’s it. Daniel.”

“You know what we need? Biscuits. Fresh from the oven. Covered in butter. I would kill my own mother for a plate of biscuits right now.”

That wasn’t an exaggeration. Hotch had never cared for his mother. He would have considered it a great deal to be able to swap her life for a plate of fresh biscuits.

“There were a couple of biscuits,” Miss Emily laughed. “But they didn’t make it past Miss Jennifer on the porch. Not much does make it past Miss Jennifer around this town. You’re lucky you got the chicken. I had to promise her I’d bring the bones to toss in the house soup tonight.”

“Tell me more about Doctor Reid,” Hotch requested again. Miss Emily picked up Hotch’s rent and bloodied shirt, toying with the holes.

“He’s a good man, Marshal, but the War was hard on him.”

“The War was hard on a lot of people.”

“He doesn’t have to stay here. He could go back East, and build a university with that brain of his. He could sail around the world, and suck up all the words and languages and thoughts of every person he met if he wanted to. He’s got a marvelous brain in that head of his. He knows facts that would dazzle you. He remembers everything he has ever read. He remembers formulas for medicines, potions, and herbals, even some Cajun bayou and Voodoo spells and other shit he picked up while he was in New Orleans in the company of an old witch straight out of the bayou. He’s saved lives all over these parts, both animal and human. He’s a good doctor, and a passable vet. He could be a king, or a general, or a president if he wanted. But he stays here with us in the middle of fucking nowhere, Nevada.”

“What’s the name of this town, anyway?” Hotch asked.

“Fucking Nowhere, Nevada,” the Countess repeated. “I’m serious. Does the name even matter? It’s whatever cattle man or railroad baron spread around enough money to get his name on the map.”

“What makes Doctor Reid stay here?”

“Doc Reid was born near here in a little place called Las Vegas, over the hills that way, before his parents took him to Virginia. Suppose Mr. Reid had a hard time finding a lawyering job in these parts, and he didn’t have the balls to be a sheriff, so he packed up his wife and son, and went back to Virginia, where her family is from.”

“Can’t imagine anyone coming back to this place willing,” Hotch observed. The Countess snickered.

“Oh, if you can get used to heat, it’s not all bad. Everywhere I’ve ever been has a beauty all its own. It’s like they say about women – there’s at least one beautiful thing about every woman you look at. Maybe Doc stays here because he sees something beautiful in the desert that everyone else misses. He feels needed here. He keeps himself busy helping out and taking care of people.”

“But why?”

“I suppose so he doesn’t sit in a dark corner, and think about what the War and Captain Foyet took from him. Plus he’s got a child to care for, and that tends to tie a person to a place pretty well,” she added timidly.

“He’s married?” Hotch gulped. “What’s Mrs. Doctor Reid like?”

Why did the idea of that horrify and disappoint the Marshal so badly? He tried to picture what kind of woman would pique Reid’s interest. Probably some scary battle axe who bossed him around night and day. No wonder he wandered around the desert, picking up strange men, and keeping company with whores.

“God, no. Doctor Reid is not the marrying kind. Not that there haven’t been a few ladies around town bent on changing his mind, foremost among them, Miss Lila Archer,” the Countess mocked, swaying her head back and forth as she rolled her eyes and sing-songed the name. It was clear Miss Emily had no love for the other woman.

“Where’d he get a child from then if he’s not married?” Hotch asked. The Countess became terribly serious again with such a sudden shift that it startled Aaron.

“The baby was abandoned. Doctor Reid took her to raise,” Miss Emily sniffled. “I found her out behind the brothel in the dead of winter, same night as I stumbled into town. I don’t remember it very well – I was deathly ill when I arrived here. They put me off the train and left me at the station, even though I had paid to go all the way to San Francisco. I do remember hearing the baby crying, but I didn’t know where she was. Her crying was muffled at first. I could hear it everywhere I went. I remember walking towards the boarding house and knocking on the door. I woke up in a bed. My things were all over the room. Someone must have brought me and my bags inside. Whoever it was had a good time going through my baggage while I was unconscious.”

“I suppose,” Hotch nodded.

“It was night, and all quiet in the house, but I could hear the baby crying. I got out of bed, and went to find her. I don’t know why, but it was important to me to find her. I stepped out on the back porch, and there she was. She was freezing, and hungry, and screaming her head off. She was no bigger than a day old. Miss Jennifer met me at the back door, and she told me, ‘If you plan to stay here, you put that squalling thing back down, because we don’t have room for you and her both’. It broke my heart. I was gonna put the baby back like Miss Jennifer had said, but instead, I tucked that tiny thing in my dress, and I started walking. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I wasn’t in my right mind. I was on the verge of death myself from loss of blood, Doc told me later.”

“Go on,” Hotch urged quietly.

“That’s when I met Doc Reid the first time. He and his friend Morgan were headed into town to buy supplies. They wouldn’t have come in the middle of the night, but Doc had smelled snow on the air. They were in a rush to be here in town at first light to get supplies, and then hurry back to the ranch before the snow started falling.”

“So he can forecast the weather too?” Hotch asked. “He is just too good to be true.”

“Hush. I’m telling you a story.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hotch murmured as he tucked his head down.

“As I said, they was in a rush to get to town and back home. Turned out later, it was a helluva snowstorm.”

“I’ve been trapped in Maine during winter, so it takes quite a snowstorm to impress me. Was it ten feet of snow?”

“Four inches, at least.”

“Four inches? That’s not even a light dusting,” Hotch squinted.

“It is for these parts. They were right to worry like they had. Anyhow, they spotted me coming across the cold desert with that baby tucked against my chest. Coyotes were following me close. They could smell blood.”

“Were you bleeding?”

“I couldn’t remember what happened. Doc and I speculated that someone on the train must have stabbed me. So Morgan said he would head on into town for the supplies while Doc took me and the baby back home with him. Doc fixed my wounds, and he cured my fever, and he… well… he made me feel better. He’s got a way about him that put me at ease. I stayed with Doc and Morgan the rest of the winter to recuperate.”

“So it’s his bedside manner you’re in love with?” Hotch asked impishly. “You’ve got Nightingale Syndrome. That’s what they called it on the battlefield when a soldier would fall in love with his nurse who tended him.”

“I am right fond of Doc, but I never said I was in love with him. Shut your mouth. Doc saved my life, and I’m grateful, but it’s more than that. He sat by my bed, and read books to me. He told me stories from memory, books he remembered his mother reading to him when he was a child. All the while he was taking care of me, he was rocking that baby in his arms. You’d have a soft spot for him too if you had seen how much he cared about that poor child. Morgan used to joke Doc did everything but nurse her from his own breast. Thank goodness they had Bess handy though. Bess. That’s their cow.”

“Sounds pretty tranquil to me. What happened to bring you back to town to Miss Jennifer?” Hotch asked.

“I’m a restless woman, Marshal. I am not one of those lucky girls who can be content with a home and a family. That’s not me. It never was. It never will be. When I was well again, I needed something to do with myself. This town never has had a school, and it doesn’t have a church any more, and what the hell kind of teacher would I make? Let alone a Sunday school teacher. So I decided to work for Miss Jennifer. It was easy money.”

“What about the baby?” Hotch asked as Miss Emily fought away tears. She brightened up at the mention of the child, giving a wet, soggy smile.

“Nobody came forward to claim her, so Doc Reid kept her. He named her Calliope Jane on account of the set of pipes she’s got. Calliope – it’s a big steam organ. Have you ever seen one?”

“At the fair, yes,” Hotch nodded.

“You should hear Callie when she gets mad. That girl has got a mind of her own, and a temper to match, and when she screams, you can hear her for miles. Guess Doc named her Calliope because ‘Fire Wagon’ would have been a weird thing to call a child. She turned three in January this year. Already talking non-stop, and smart? You would not believe how smart that baby is. Having Doc for a father, guess that shouldn’t be a surprise. She’s going to have anything she ever wants or needs. Doc is a good man, and I won’t hear you say one bad thing about him,” Miss Emily whispered, drying her face on Hotch’s ripped shirt and shaking her head as she stared down into the material in her grip.

“Forgive me for asking, but is Calliope your baby?” Hotch asked softly.

“No,” the Countess denied hotly, with so much vehement fury that he immediately backed away from her. “She’s not mine. I told you, I found her. Someone else put her out in the trash heap. I would have never done such a thing. But I found her, you see, and that made her my responsibility, as far as I couldn’t leave her there the way Miss Jennifer wanted. My father would have been so mad at me. Don’t you understand?”

“I understand.” He understood more than she knew. Hotch’s brain was busy speculating about the situation. If she could hear the baby crying when she was walking through town, then he speculated she must have had the baby with her the whole time. Maybe in her baggage?

Whoever had gone through the Countess’s things – that’s who must have found the baby, and that’s probably who put the baby on the trash heap. Miss Jennifer was the most likely suspect, Hotch decided. The question in Hotch’s mind was why Miss Emily had put the baby inside her luggage in the first place. She had wanted to hide the baby, clearly, but her reasons escaped Hotch’s brain.

“Do you ever think about the Hereafter, Marshal? Do you think about your loved ones who have gone on before you?” she asked.

“Sometimes I do,” Hotch nodded.

“Do you think it’s true they’re watching what we do here? I disappointed my father so much while he was alive. I’d hate to keep doing it after he’s dead too. He’ll never be able to rest in peace, and it’ll be all my fault.”

“I’m sure your father understands what you did and why,” the Marshal soothed.

“Miss Jennifer sure didn’t understand. She was mad at me for weeks for saving that baby’s life. But she eventually she warmed up to me when she realized I could make her all kinds of money. The whole situation sure soured Doc against Miss Jennifer though. He has harbored a dark dislike for her ever since, and that is not like him at all. He’s a ‘live and let live’ kind of guy. But if you piss him off, and he takes a dislike to you?” The Countess shook her head as her voice trailed away.

“Sounds to me like Doctor Reid was pretty fond of you, taking care of you like he did, taking that baby to raise. I doubt it would have taken much effort on your part to make yourself Mrs. Doctor Reid,” Hotch said, hoping for a reaction.

“That wasn’t gonna happen,” Miss Emily said moodily.

“Why not? A man’s heart is not that far above from his belt. Aim a bit higher, girl! You deserve more than this.”

“Doc isn’t interested in me that way,” she defended. 

“How do you mean?” Hotch pressed.

“Truth is, I can’t think of anyone he’s ever been interested in that way, not that I’ve seen, except maybe you. You sure as hell made him light up.”

Hotch caught his breath, and Miss Emily shrugged one shoulder at him nonchalantly.

“Oh, don’t get all defensive with me. I trade in sexual attraction, Marshal, and I ain’t stupid or blind when I see it. People talk. People talk a lot, and they say some horrible things about Doc and Morgan, two men living together on that ranch with no womenfolk around. But I’ve spent time with them. I lived with them for three months. They ain’t the sort that people are making them out to be. They sleep in separate rooms, and Morgan carries on with any woman who will look at him twice, myself included. He is all man as far as I can tell.”

“What are you saying?” Hotch wondered. “Doc isn’t all man?”

“People see Morgan carrying on with women, but they’ve never seen Doc carrying on with anyone, so they talk. I hear he was good friends with Reverend Gideon before Miss Jennifer ran him off. That could be part of why Doc doesn’t like Miss Jennifer. Doc is shy around people, that’s all. All you gotta do is touch him, and he turns as pink as a virgin.”

Hotch listened, trying to read between the lines with what Miss Emily was saying. The way he was watching her made her self-conscious. She felt she needed to continue to explain herself.

“Don’t get me wrong. Even if Doc and Morgan were that way, it wouldn’t be anybody’s business but their own. I don’t give a shit. Guess certain self-righteous people don’t like other people being happy if they aren’t happy themselves. That’s what that’s all about. They don’t want you being happy and having fun if they are miserable. Yes, sir,” she nodded to herself. “Kinda funny for a whore turned madam to be a self-righteous sort though, isn’t it?”

“Ma’am, you’re a beautiful woman. The doctor was not immune to your charms. Maybe if you gave him a nudge, he’d respond to you,” Hotch suggested.

The Countess gave Hotch a disgusted glare. He feared for a moment that she might take a swing at him.

“You men always like to think women would never be able to come up with an idea if you didn’t suggest it to us first. Well let me tell you something, Marshal. Maybe I did used to think I wanted to be Mrs. Doctor Reid. Maybe I did try to seduce him. It was a huge big mistake.”

“Why was it a mistake?” Hotch asked, heart in his throat.

“My pride got the better of me. I wasn’t accustomed to men not responding to my overtures. I cornered Doc in the saloon one Friday night. Got him upstairs under false pretenses. Locked him in my room. Grabbed him to put a kiss or two on him. Tore his tie off. That’s as far as I got before he stopped me.”

“And?” the Marshal rasped.

“He pushed me away like I had burned him. Didn’t say a word. He unlocked the door, and he left. He didn’t speak to me for a month after that. At first I thought maybe I had come on too strong, and that he liked shy women. I was willing to be shy for him. But that wasn’t it at all.”

“Oh,” Hotch murmured, struggling to conceal his keen interest in her tale. “What was it then? He prefers blondes?”

“No,” Miss Emily said grimly. “It took Morgan more than a month to get Doc Reid and me talking again. Things were different afterwards though, really fucking awkward at first. Doc wouldn’t hardly look me in the eyes anymore. Stammered when he spoke to me. It was plain to see I had done something I shouldn’t have done. It was more than him not being interested in me. He was scared of me.”

“Why was he scared of you?” Hotch asked.

“Morgan told me not to worry, that I had resurrected one of the doctor’s war ghosts, like a Voodoo priestess shaking the dead out of the ground with her magic. It was gonna take Doc some time to put that evil spirit back down where he had buried it before. Morgan said I needed to give Doc time, so I did.”

“Oh,” Hotch hardly breathed. He was hanging on her every word.

“It didn’t take me too long to figure out what kind of ghost I woke up. I’ve seen that evil spirit before myself, especially in this line of work. It can be dangerous if you get the wrong kind of customer, and he’s in a bad mood,” she confided, looking away from him. “I’m right protective of Doc, knowing we have something in common.”

Hotch’s first thought was to wonder why so many women who worked as prostitutes had been sexually abused or assaulted. He thought again about the abandoned baby too. Had the Countess not wanted the baby, or had she been unable to deal with the baby because the child had been the product of a brutal attack? It hit him finally what she was saying about Doc – she believed he had been sexually mistreated during the War.

“Doc did come around to his old self again eventually, but I think Callie is more to thank for that than anyone else. She can make him smile when nothing else can reach him,” Miss Emily continued.

“Things are all right between you two now?”

“Things are fine, sir, and I plan to keep them that way, so I will thank you kindly not to bring up the subject again.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hotch agreed quickly. He picked at the half-finished chicken thigh in his hand, sighing heavily with both exhaustion and relief. “If Doc’s not interested, you could find another man for a husband. Not like there’s a shortage of men around this place. Good ones.”

“I’m not interested in marriage, Marshal.”

“But don’t you want to find happiness?” he asked innocently.

“What makes you think marriage will always bring happiness, or that happiness can only be found in marriage? Maybe my personal state of happiness is being free. Who the hell are you to tell me what should make me happy? I’ll tell you what, my grandmother always said there never was two people wed without some unspoken sorrow or regret between the two of them. One or the other, maybe both, they have a secret, a love, or an undisclosed desire that the other person has no idea about. It will always come between them in the end though. That’s what secrets do. So marriage doesn’t always make for eternal happiness. I don’t care what they tell you in fairy tales. Besides, you are a bit old to be believing in fairy tales, Marshal.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Hotch agreed. “You could make a lot of money as a seamstress too,” he added.

“If I had wanted to spend my life being a seamstress, I would never have left St. Louis,” Miss Emily frowned at him.

“Fair enough,” Hotch smiled.

“I would not have screwed my way to Fucking Nowhere, Nevada if my master plan was to be a seamstress.”

“What is your master plan? Screw your way towards San Francisco, or turn around and head back for St. Louis?” Hotch asked mischievously.

“Truth be told, I don’t exactly have a master plan any more. Don’t have any plans at all, really. Think I’ll stay around these parts for a while longer. The screwing is pretty good here, and the money isn’t bad. It’s the weather that makes me itchy and irritable. Aren’t you going to finish your chicken?” she pointed to the half-eaten fowl.

“No. I can’t eat another bite. You’re welcome to it.”

“I’m full too. Overfull. Miss Jennifer will be happy to have it for the soup,” Miss Emily said, scooping up the plate and heading for the door. She paused, and turned back around. “You won’t tell Doc I said so much about him, will you? He’s pretty shy ‘bout what folks know. I don’t know why I said so much.”

“I won’t say a thing,” the Marshal promised sleepily.

“I’ll bring you more whiskey when I bring back your shirt,” the Countess promised.

“I’d rather have water, I think,” Hotch mumbled as he rolled carefully onto his side and tried to get some more rest.


	7. The Dead is Rising

Hotch woke up to the sound of splashing water and low voices. He kept his eyes closed and listened.

“I was worried. I came looking for you.” 

“You left Callie by herself?” Doc gasped. 

“I had her with me.”

“You took her with you, not knowing what you might run into?”

“Doc, I was scared to death when you didn’t come back this morning. It was either go out looking, or pace my legs down to the knees. I went up to the hill to have a look, see if you were coming across the desert. That’s when I spotted that beautiful horse wandering around, so I went out and snagged him. Nice saddle. Full canteen of water. No rider though. The horse had a hurt foot, so I set him up at home in the stable. Once I saw that horse, I figured you must have gotten yourself into some kind of mischief. So I got Maggie and Callie ready, and we came towards town looking for you.”

“Morgan, it’s not like I go looking for trouble.”

The other man chuckled softly, “Whether you look for trouble or not, it has a way of finding you.”

“Suppose that’s true. What would I do without you chasing my ass to ground?”

“We met Mr. Rossi’s stock-boy halfway to town. He explained what was going on.”

“Where did you hide Maggie?”

“Maggie is stashed in the stall next to Hal.”

“Where’s Callie then? You didn’t bring her here, did you?”

“God no. Callie and Sophie are playing dolls. Miss Penelope said if you were planning to be drinking and carrying on, then she was planning for Callie to spend the night there with her and Sophie.”

“Like I spend every night of the week drinking and carrying on?” Reid muttered grumpily. “When was the last time you saw me drink and play cards?”

“Not for a while, but then I know how you are when you get to drinking past your limits.”

“I will drink within my limits.”

Hotch opened his eyes, and glanced across the semi-dark room. Doc Reid had returned. He was standing at the small dresser, striped down to the waist. There was a clean shirt was hanging over one of the posts at the end of the bed. He had changed into dark black pants and gray suspenders, and black boots that went up to the knee. He was washing his stubbly face and doing his best to sluice off as much of the desert grime as he could.

Hotch stared at the doctor’s back, and couldn’t help but gasp in surprise. Criss-crossing the pale, slender man’s body were several lash scars. They ran from one shoulder to the other, from the doctor’s neck down to his waist and hips, where they disappeared into his low-slung pants. Someone had taken a whip to him with the intention of breaking his will or breaking his body, or maybe both.

A black boot moved into view as someone stretched their legs. That someone had been leaning back in the chair beside the bed. He had put both feet back on the floor to stand up. A large, muscular black man bent down and stared into the Marshal’s face.

“Doc, the dead is rising,” he commented quietly, a smile testing his mouth as he worried a cigar around between his teeth.

Reid whirled around, drying off with a thin towel. His chest was raked with lash scars as well. He rapidly pulled on his shirt and buttoned it as he tucked his chin to his chest.

“Marshal,” he murmured. “Sorry if we disturbed you.” 

“It’s all right,” Hotch replied. “Thanks for the chicken.”

“Sorry about the mishap with your biscuits.” Reid’s smile returned. “Can’t hardly blame Miss Jennifer. Miss Penelope is the best cook for miles around. We had us a shootout once because a miner stole the last biscuit on the breakfast tray. Men died that morning, fighting over Miss Penny’s biscuits. Wyatt’s last words were, ‘Worth every bite.’ If you’re feeling better in the morning, we’ll get breakfast at her restaurant before riding out to my place.”

“I’m feeling better,” Hotch offered. “Why wait?”

“You look like death warmed over,” the black man told him plainly as he put out his cigar against the heel of his boot, and tucked it away in the pouch at his waist. Hotch frowned at the interloper and his honest remark.

“Morgan,” Reid whispered softly, fighting a smile. “Marshal Hotchner, this is my best friend, Derek Morgan.”

“Marshal,” Morgan said, touching the brim of his hat.

“Good to meet you,” Hotch replied. “Mr. Derek.”

“There’s no need for formalities. We’re all friends here. Just call me Morgan,” the man murmured with a chuckle. “I’ll wait in the hall for you, Doc. Make it snappy.”

Morgan ambled for the door, and gave the Marshal a backwards glance of suspicion and curiosity.

“He pulls anything funny, you holler for me,” Morgan murmured to Doc.

“I will,” Reid promised with a hint of a smile. Morgan nodded and left the room.

“I do feel better,” Hotch said.

“That’s the whiskey talking. You need a good night of rest before you’ll be ready to get on a horse. How do I look?” Reid asked, arms out-stretched.

“Is that my tie?” Hotch squinted.

“You aren’t using it. I didn’t think you’d mind if I borrowed it. Is this silk?” Reid breathed, caressing the material with his long, delicate fingers.

“Yes, it’s silk. It’s from New York.” 

“It’s beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful,” Hotch whispered. The words were a calculated move on his part, a way to test out the theory the Countess had planted in his mind. He hit pay-dirt.  
Reid’s pleasant face fractured. His shoulders seemed to want to climb inside his chest. The Marshal pretended not to notice the change in Doc’s demeanor.

“Thank… thank you… I guess,” Reid stammered. “Clearly you are delirious with pain, or perhaps it’s the whiskey talking again.”

Doc smoothed his shirt and his hair, and slipped into a vest. He steeled himself, and raised his chin, but he couldn’t make himself meet the Marshal’s eyes.

“Wish me luck,” Reid whispered before he all but fled the room. 

Hotch took a deep breath and sighed to himself. There was an unhappy sorrow in his stomach, watching Doc leave again, especially shaking as he had been. Something was brewing in Aaron’s heart that was making him feel strange. He wondered what the feeling was. Was it butterflies?

Hotch hadn’t felt butterflies in years either.


	8. A Few Hands of Cards

Hotch lay in the bed as the darkness intensified. Sleep did not return. Some of it was the butterflies dancing around inside him. Most of it was that the noises coming from downstairs were maddening and enticing. There was laughter and music, the sound of clinking glasses, shouts of conversations and friendly disagreements. Someone was punishing the keys of a piano. The smell of food rose as well – he could detect bread and meat and sausages and chicken soup.

A blonde girl of eighteen or twenty tiptoed into Hotch’s room with a candle and a bowl of soup. She was tall and beautiful, and maybe Swedish or Norwegian, he thought. She gazed him up and down with admiration before giving him the soup. She put the candle in the lantern on the dresser. When his eyes adjusted to the light, Hotch realized with a dreadful shock that she was dressed to go to work downstairs. She also had bread crumbs on her clothes. That explained how his bread and soup had turned into only soup.

“Ashley Seaver!! You get back down here!”

That shrill, commanding voice must have belonged to Miss Jennifer, Hotch decided, seeing the way the tall girl tensed and jumped to obey. Ashley bobbed to him, and practically ran from the room.

It was good soup – chicken and dumplings. Bread would have been nice, but Hotch wasn’t going to make a fuss. He finished the soup quickly, and put the bowl on the side table, where he brushed against his badge. He picked up his golden star and fingered it, putting it against his heart and listening again to the amusements taking place beneath his feet.

Another ten minutes was all he could take. Hotch raised himself up, put his badge on the table, and reached for his pants. The Countess had not returned with his shirt, so he couldn’t go into polite company yet, not with all these black-threaded injuries showing on his chest. But he could loiter in the hallway, maybe sit himself on the stairs, maybe get a look at what was going on.

Hotch could not have been happier with the niche that he found, in the crook of the stairs, looking down through the railings. It was like being a kid at Christmas, and watching the adults carry on below while he was safe on the upstairs landing. No one saw him as they lost themselves in their amusements.

There were thirty odd men below and about twenty or so women, most of them the girls who lived here with Miss Jennifer. There were several card games taking place, liquor being poured, chances being taken. There wasn’t a single person in the room, including the whores, who didn’t have a gun strapped to their waist or their hip or their thigh or their leg. No one in their right mind was going to start trouble down there. Everyone was a potential target and a potential killer.

Miss Jennifer was the one singing along with the piano. The man playing piano was pounding away with more enthusiasm than actual skill. The petite blonde was clearly the woman in charge here, watching the actions of all her girls, giving them verbal directions and hand-signal orders about what to do and where to go. Anyone who disobeyed got a nasty, sharp look, or if they were in arms’ reach, got whacked with Miss Jennifer’s decorative hand-fan, which she whipped open and closed, open and closed with the flick of a wrist. She worked that fan like a dangerous felon would work a straight razor, and when she went for you, she left a mark!

Having heard Miss Emily’s dark tale about the intimidating proprietress of the establishment, Hotch had pictured someone much more frightening in appearance. The woman in question was very small and too thin, with bright blonde hair and an innocent, baby face. If someone had taken her out of that flamboyant, low-cut dress she was currently wearing, and put her in a decent dress and a proper bonnet, Hotch was sure she would have been indistinguishable from any other woman on the street. He didn’t look at Miss Jennifer and immediately think she was a hard-ass madam. It was amusing to Hotch that Miss Emily was so frightened of this small woman whom she could have bent in half and stuffed into a barrel.

Hotch spotted Miss Emily in a wine-colored dress, her dark hair piled up on her head. She was easily the most beautiful woman in the room. She was taller, more vibrant, with a melodic laugh and a musical voice. Men’s eyes followed her wherever she went. Miss Emily was retrieving drinks from the bar, and being friendly with the roughly-dressed men hanging around its contours. One of them snaked an arm around her waist and tugged her into his lap when she was in reach. She laughed and kissed him soundly on the lips, but carefully detracted herself from his grip in order to keep from spilling the drinks she was carrying. Once free of his arm, she bumped her hip against his and spoke with him a moment longer. The man’s face brightened with the extra attention.

It wasn’t hard to find Doc Reid. He and Morgan had taken a seat at the table the furthest away from the middle of the room. The center table was where all the wild action was going on. Reid and Morgan were engaged in a card game with a rotund man with salt and pepper black hair and a closely-trimmed beard, and three or four others who were miners or ranch hands. No one at their table was paying much attention to their cards. They kept stopping their game to talk, or to turn and watch the game at the center table, where tempers were starting to rise.

“That must be a magical deck of cards you got there, Billy, because that’s the second Ace of Spades you’ve pulled out of it.”

The commanding voice carried over the sudden silence in the room.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Jim Riley,” Billy answered, putting both feet on the floor and glaring hard at his neighbor.

“Why don’t we trade seats?” the rotund man at Reid’s table suggested. “Here. You have my seat, have a glass of wine, and I’ll take your place. How’s that sound? I’ve never seen a magical deck of cards before.”

Jim Riley made a disgruntled face and spat on the floor. Morgan put a hand under the table and let it rest on his weapon. Reid gave Morgan a careful glance, and shifted his feet under the table. The last thing Doc wanted was to get shot in the kneecap if Morgan let a bullet loose from under the table.

“Quit molly-coddling me, Mr. Rossi. This cheating son-of-a-bitch is going to trade in the deck of cards he’s holding, or I’m going to blow a hole in his ass,” Jim hollered loudly.

“The doctor is off-duty tonight, and he’s had too much to drink, so could you wait to shoot Billy until tomorrow?” Rossi laughed, motioning to the doctor. Reid stood up from the table, picked up his pint of beer, and twisted carefully through chairs in order to take Billy’s place at the center table. Morgan watched him go, and concern flooded his face.

“Let’s all be friends and make nice, shall we?” Reid suggested. He nudged Billy towards the other table, and Billy went, understanding that Rossi and Reid had saved his life. Reid motioned to the bar. Miss Emily pulled a fresh deck of cards out from under the wooden plank and tossed it to Doc. He gathered up the old cards and straightened them in his hands, sliding them back and forth twice, three times, four times.

“Fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five,” he murmured as he finished. “Billy, you are a cheating son-of-a-bitch. Next time, we’re going to let Jim shoot you,” he muttered, giving the old deck to Miss Emily to stash away.

Laughter flew around the room, and Billy ducked in shame, but Rossi poured him a large glass of wine from his own bottle, and pushed it over to him, patting him on the shoulder. Reid unwrapped the new deck and let the cards filter back and forth between his hands.

“Go easy on me,” he pleaded, letting Jim cut the deck and then accepting it back in order to deal.

Danger had been averted for now. Hotch relaxed and continued to watch Reid. The young doctor was smoother than the ice on New York winter sidewalks, and just as treacherous too. As a ploy, he lost several rounds on purpose, before seeming to get his luck back, only to lose another large pot with a dramatic groan and a shocking stream of profanity. Jim was grinning like an alligator, all the previous enmity against Billy long forgotten.

Morgan wasn’t paying attention to his game at all. He folded his cards, and sat back from the table, letting the others play on. He was too busy watching the doctor. Why was he so concerned? His friend was no more than ten feet away. Maybe it was the amount of alcohol the doctor was putting away. Reid had his back to Morgan, but he rolled his neck to settle a kink, and when he glanced over his shoulder, he caught Morgan’s disapproving expression. Doc turned back around to his own table.

“Perhaps I had better stop drinking,” he decided. “Last hand, too,” he added.

“Come on, Doc. It’s barely nine,” another player at the table pleaded.

“Think I’ll quit while I’m ahead. $25.27. That’s more than I came in with. One more hand. One. That’s it,” Reid said. 

Morgan stood up and came over to the center table.

“Doc, we should call it a night,” his friend suggested quietly. Reid looked up at him.

“You’re right,” Reid agreed, folding his cards and setting them down. He gazed up at Morgan and waited for his approval. His friend nodded to him, patting his shoulder.

“Are you really gonna let a slave tell you how to run your life?” Jim mocked.

Doctor Reid’s head snapped back around, and he centered hateful, angry eyes on Jim. His entire body went stiff with tension. The expression on the doctor’s face made Jim’s face go white.

“Morgan is not a slave! He has never been! He is as much a free man as you are, Jim Riley! We fought a war to make sure that there wasn’t going to be any more slavery in this country, and the last time I checked, the North did win. So you won’t be calling any man a slave around here. I don’t care what color his skin is. Do you understand me?!”

“No need to lecture me, Doc,” Jim said as he laughed nervously. “You sure are a feisty little banty rooster when you’re all riled up.”

Reid was standing with his gun out of his holster faster than anyone could blink. A circle of people scrambled back from him, leaving Jim like a sitting duck in his chair.

“Doc, there’s no need to get mad. I’m kidding around with you. That’s all,” Jim pleaded, hands raised to either side.

“Spencer Reid, you put that away! This is no reason to kill a man,” Morgan commanded sternly.

“You don’t want to get blood all over that nice tie, do you?” another player commented, hoping to cause a humorous break in the tension in the room. Reid stroked the beautiful silk and shook his head no, momentarily distracted.

“Let’s all be friendly, and put away our guns,” Mr. Rossi said, stepping between Jim and Reid, motioning for the doctor to give him the weapon. Reid lowered his gun and put it back in his holster. He was blushing hot with indignation and embarrassment.

“I apologize if I offended you,” Jim said, directing the words at both Reid and Morgan.

“No offense taken,” Morgan promised.

Doc stared at the ground, eyes clouded with remembrances. Morgan guided Reid back to the table, and pulled up the empty chair next to Doc’s. Everyone slowly went back to playing cards. Morgan urged the doctor to do so as well, motioning for Jim to deal Reid into the cards he was beginning to distribute. Jim dealt the cards with trembling hands.

Reid won the first hand, and decided another round would be allowable. He lost everything he had in the next hand, and pouted through one round without playing. Morgan loaned him a dollar. Miss Emily brought him tall glass of ice cubes and amber liquid to drink. He took a sip and gave her a funny look.

“Iced tea?” Doc questioned, giving Miss Emily a dirty look. She gave that dirty look right back to him, shaking one finger at him in warning. He ducked down and quit complaining. He dipped long fingers into the glass, withdrew a cube, and played with it, sucking on it, crunching at it, rubbing it under his chin and against his cheek.

Where had Miss Emily gotten ice cubes in the middle of the desert? They must have had one damned cold and damned deep root cellar under this building, Hotch decided. He wondered if Doc had managed to perform that miracle too. Had he built an ice pit in the cellar with his bare hands? Was that it? It was getting to be like the fishes and the loaves around this place with that man!

Hotch was absolutely hypnotized, mostly by the way Reid was sucking and licking that lucky ice cube, but also by the way Doc was playing cards. Although Reid was leaning half drunk on one elbow and seemed nearly ready to drop, his shrewd eyes whipped around the table, cataloguing every card, every hand that went by him. The burst of anger had wiped away his humor, but it had drawn him into sharp focus, made him focus on his task.

Thankfully the ice cube vanished quickly. Hotch wasn’t the only one distracted by the way Doc was treating that sliver of coldness. Doc made as if to grab another chunk of ice from the glass, but Morgan covered the top of the glass with one hand and frowned at Doc. Doc measured Morgan with a beady-eyed stare. Morgan measured Doc with a disapproving frown. Doc retreated, much to Hotch’s amusement.

Reid began winning hands, and did not stop. It was by bits and pieces – a dollar here, another dollar there, a half dollar, a few pennies – that he began to accumulate a new pot of winnings. He paid Morgan back his loan with interest. By ten, Reid had gathered an astonishing pile of coinage and bills. The more Reid played, the more he won. With his temper abated, and his mind focused on the game, his humor returned very slowly. Teasing jibes and gentle prods in the arm from Morgan made the doctor’s face warm again. A small smile teased his mouth.

Reid won every game he played between ten-thirty and eleven. He had captured the interest of the entire saloon by then. The other card games had stopped. Everyone in the room was watching the center table, staring at Doc just as Hotch was doing. Reid put his head down on his arm and the crook of his elbow, and peeled his cards up by the corners to peer at them. Everyone in close range could see that he had at least a pair of twos. The doctor giggled softly.

“You good, Doc?” Morgan asked. He nudged Reid, and the doctor put his cards back down, sitting up straight in his chair. Jim was waiting for an answer, fingering the deck and holding his breath.

“Yep,” Reid nodded, pushing half his pile of coins into the center of the table.

“You sure, Doc?” Jim asked. Reid giggled drunkenly again, and nodded, unable to stop smiling now that his happiness had returned to him.

“Your call, Miles,” Rossi said. The red-head in the next seat shook his head and laughed with delight.

“I ain’t too shy to take him if he’s going to be that stupid,” Miles replied. “All he’s got is a pair of twos.”

“Show your cards, gentlemen,” Rossi said.

Doc’s resulting squeal of excitement indicated he had won this round as well. Miles was making the worst face. Doc had had a pair of twos and three jacks – a full house. He cheered like a small kid, and raked in the funds, pushing them towards Morgan as Mr. Rossi circled the table and watched Doc shrewdly.

“Is it enough to buy everyone drinks?” Reid asked. 

“More than enough,” Morgan nodded.

“Drinks for everyone!!!” Reid yelled loudly, cheering again. That seemed to calm Miles’s ruffled feathers somewhat.

Mr. Rossi sat down in the chair that Miles had vacated in the rush to the bar. Reid waved, and he waved back. Morgan and Rossi had both noted how many jealous and greedy eyes had fallen on that pot of winnings. They helped Reid pay Miss Jennifer, who had made a beeline over to the center table. She carted away one third of the winnings, and set about giving drinks to everyone remaining in the room. She gave two to Miles, because she had a sense of when a customer needed some extra cheer.

“Is it enough to buy the Countess a ship?” Reid asked Rossi.

“Not quite enough for a ship. It’s about seventy-five dollars, give or take.”

Rossi was lying. It was at least two hundred dollars worth of bills and change, more than enough reason to put a bullet through a man.

“Wow! That’s a lot of money!” Reid exclaimed. “It might buy a small ship.”

“You live in Nevada, Doc. It’s a desert. Where you gonna buy a ship?” Morgan asked as he folded up Reid’s winnings and stuffed them in random pockets for him.

“Is it enough to buy a pony?” Reid asked.

“Tell me you’re not headed home tonight,” Rossi pleaded, looking to Morgan for an answer.

The Countess appeared at the doctor’s back and fingered his hair very gently.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Rossi. I’ll get him a room upstairs,” the Countess promised.

“Will you tuck me in, Momma?” Doc asked her, gazing up from below. She did not reply, but she gave a sad smile. Rossi looked more than a touch skeptical about her sudden burst of altruism.

“Keep your hands out of his pockets,” Rossi growled. “I want a chance to win some of that money back from him tomorrow night or next week.”

“A donation towards your ship,” Reid said to the Countess, reaching up and back to tuck several bills down inside the front of her dress. She watched his hands, annoyed at first, but when he didn’t do anything shifty, she patted him on the head as a thank-you.

As men began to follow women up the staircase, Hotch hurried back into his room. He was waiting on the bed, looking as innocent as fresh cream when Miss Emily and Morgan carried Reid through the door. Aaron motioned to the bed, where they set the weaving young man down.

“Hi,” Reid breathed at Hotch.

“Hi,” Hotch smiled back at him, half-drunk from the smell on Reid’s breath.

“I got money for you,” he said with sweet, childlike happiness, unbuttoning his shirt and his vest, emptying his pockets, and giving everything he found to Hotch. Morgan laughed, sitting down in the chair by the bed, and taking off his hat to fan his face.

“Can I leave him with you?” Miss Emily whispered. “I gotta go get a final customer for the night, or Miss Jennifer is going to holler at me.”

“Problem solved,” Morgan said as he stood up and reached an arm around her. She laughed in reply, and nodded her consent.

“We’re going to be right next to you on this side,” she whispered to the Marshal.

“Lock this door,” Morgan said to Hotch on the way out.

Hotch grimaced as he pulled himself off the bed in order to lock the door. When he returned to the bed, he grabbed a pillow, stuffing Reid’s winnings inside. Reid stood up haphazardly, undid his belt, and unbuttoned his pants.

“Doc!” Hotch chided.

“Oh, look! There is even more down here,” Reid chuckled softly. He struggled out of his boots, and then his trousers hit the floor hard, weighed down with the coinage in his pockets. Change went everywhere around the floor.

“Doc,” Hotch sighed impatiently.

Hotch carefully bent over to pick up the pants, worried he had torn a stitch or two in the process. Reid sat on the bed and watched with interest as the Marshal crawled around on the floor. Aaron moved behind the end of the bed, and pulled himself up by the bedstead. Doc pretended to be suddenly very interested in the other side of the room and the ghastly wallpaper. Hotch put the coins all in the leather satchel by the end of the bed, and he folded the pants away neatly.

“ ’M so sleepy,” Reid whispered, shoving off the remainder of his clothes and leaving them in a pile on the floor. He rolled clumsily under the covers of Hotch’s bed, leaving one long, lean, pale leg hanging out. It was covered with sandy hair and lash mark scars.

Hotch folded the clothes and set them aside on the dresser. He paused, glancing back at the bed. The doctor hadn’t taken off Hotch’s tie. How had he managed to get out of his shirt without taking the tie off?? Aaron bent over the bed and carefully undid the adornment, sliding the silk away from Reid’s pale skin dotted with moles and freckles and too many scars to count.

Hotch put the tie on the dresser, and blew out the candle in the lantern. In the darkness, he crawled under the covers next to Reid.

Hotch was surprised when he heard a soft voice next to him whisper in his ear.

“You’re beautiful too, Marshal.”

Soft, plush lips brushed Hotch’s mouth with a touch almost too delicate to feel. Hotch was too amazed to move or react. Those butterflies were back though, dancing around in excitement inside Hotch’s chest. Reid tucked himself against Hotch, nestling very close. He sighed with contentment, and seemed to fall asleep almost instantly.

Hotch wasn’t so lucky. Maybe he wasn’t tired because he had slept earlier in the day. Or maybe it was because in the quiet, he was hearing the passionate groans and affectionate words coming from next door where Morgan and Miss Emily had disappeared.

Reid must have heard them too. Apparently he wasn’t as asleep as he had seemed. He snickered softly against Hotch’s neck, and mumbled at him.

“Best cover your ears, Marshal. They’s quiet now, but once they get going, they are like a couple of horny coyotes.”

Hotch snickered, then winced against the dull pain that radiated through him as his chest shook with laughter. He liked the way Doc said ‘coyotes’. Ki-yote-tees. Not ki- yotes, like he heard back East. He wondered if Doc’s pronunciation of words always slid towards an uneducated, local vernacular when he had a few beers in him. Hotch also wondered if he was going to talk that way if he stayed around here too long.


	9. A Case of Homemade Moonshine and Twenty-Five Dollars

Aside from a brief awakening in the night when he thought he might have been sleeping in a box full of hungry newborn puppies, Hotch didn’t stir until dawn. All he could think about were puppies when he did open his eyes in the morning. After a moment or two of deep thought, he realized what he had heard in the night was fearful whimpering, and his stomach clenched. He searched the bed for the only possible source of the sound.

Doc Reid was nestled against Hotch’s right side, on the half of the bed nearest to the open window. His naked skin was pleasant and warm in the early morning chill. He didn’t appear at all upset now. He was resting peacefully.

While Hotch’s first response should have been to move away from such closeness to a complete stranger, instead, he stayed where he was, tracing one finger through the doctor’s disarrayed hair. The sandy curls felt like silk against Hotch’s skin, but what he wanted was to see the doctor’s face. He pushed the curls aside and stared down at the young man. Reid was sound asleep, nibbling his bottom lip, mumbling softly in his dreams.

It wasn’t uncomfortable at all, waking up with Reid tucked against him. Hotch could feel the outline of the young man’s thin body. Aaron’s low-slung hand was resting on Doc’s slender hip. Hotch sighed, enjoying the feeling, the way they fit together against each other like two puzzle pieces. It had been too long since he had had the pleasure of waking up next to someone. Steady breathing tickled Aaron’s neck and chest. Hotch caressed the hip under his hand, and his body filled to the brim with want.

Miss Emily's words from yesterday about Doc's war injuries echoed back through the Marshal’s mind. Curious, Hotch carefully peered down under the covers at the other man’s nakedness. He was not at all prepared for what he discovered beneath the sheets. Hotch slid both arms around the doctor and pulled him close again, petting his hair in a gentle, tender manner. He was compelled to want to soothe and comfort against what must have been a terrifying experience.

Hotch shuddered as he thought about George Foyet, and the evil man’s keenness for blades. Aaron could not imagine a more horrific invasion of personal space or of a man’s dignity. Hotch had seen injures like this on two of Foyet’s younger male murder victims – knife marks across the penis, removal of the foreskin, and more knife cuts across the abdomen. None of the cuts were deep enough to kill, but they were more than enough to scar someone for life. Foyet must have toyed with Reid for hours. When had this happened, and how had the young doctor managed to survive?

“It happened during the War,” Reid whispered against Hotch’s neck.

The Marshal was too ashamed to meet the doctor’s eyes, as if he had somehow added insult to injury by being so curious as to actually look. He had thought Doc was asleep, but Reid must have been awakened by the sudden breeze under the covers.

“I’m sorry,” Hotch apologized. Reid shook his head.

“I was taken for a spy in ’64 when I went to New Orleans for a friend’s wedding. Soldiers came and dragged me away. I should have known better than to have gone, but Ethan and I had been close before the War. It was a matter of honor. I didn’t want Ethan to think I was ashamed of our friendship because we were on opposite sides of the conflict. If he was going to invite me to his wedding, I was determined to go. I was arrogant, and so stupid. The soldiers spirited me away to a secret location. I found out later that Ethan had been the one to turn me in. He gave me up as a wedding present to his new wife.”

“I’m sorry,” Hotch whispered again.

“They questioned me, and I wouldn’t talk. They beat me, and I wouldn’t talk. They lashed me to within an inch of my life, and I wouldn’t talk. Then they gave me to Captain Foyet.”

Hotch remained quiet, stroking the doctor’s hair.

“I didn’t know the particulars of where Foyet started out in life, but he has clearly found his calling. He’s the one who…. who did this to me. By the time he was done, I was in so much pain, I would have confessed to nailing Jesus to the Cross,” Reid whispered. Hotch couldn’t look away from his haunted eyes. As if Aaron had needed another reason to hate Foyet and want him dead?

“And after?” Hotch rasped. There weren’t words to express what Hotch was feeling in his gut and in his heart.

“The Commandant of the prison camp wouldn’t let the Captain kill me. He told Foyet I was from old Virginia money, and that I might come in useful. Since Foyet wasn’t allowed to kill me, he gave me to his lieutenants. I spent weeks and weeks chained to a dirty bed in the officers’ quarters, until a rotation of personnel brought in a new lieutenant, someone who took pity on me. I suppose God figured I had been humbled enough by that point. Lieutenant Hankel purchased me from the other officers for a case of homemade moonshine and twenty-five dollars. Is that a good price for well-used whore?”

Reid’s tale slowed to a crawl. He was lost in distant nightmares – Hotch could tell by the faraway look in the young man’s eyes. The Countess had been more right than she could have imagined. Hotch’s butterflies weren’t dancing now. Anger and protectiveness welled up in him.

Aaron reached down and touched Reid’s chin very gently. Doc’s golden amber eyes came back to rest on Hotch’s face. There was a blankness in those eyes that frightened Hotch – he was sure for a few moments that the young man had no idea where he was or who the Marshal was. Hotch stroked the back of one finger gently against Reid’s cheek.

“Doc? Did Lieutenant Hankel release you?” Hotch asked. Reid blinked again, and shook his head.

“Oh, no. Nothing so easy at that. Captain Foyet found out how kind Tobias was being to me, and he murdered Hankel in cold blood right before my eyes. Old George would have killed me as well, no matter how useful the Commandant had said I could be, but the prison boss had concocted a plan to ransom me back to my parents, and he wasn’t going to let Foyet spoil that plan. I suppose he hoped to set himself up for after the War,” Reid smirked to himself at the idea.

Hotch knew this was not going to end well, and he kept quiet, listening.

“The Commandant partnered with Foyet to execute the ransom scheme. They delivered a note to my parents. My father said no. My mother said yes. Luckily for me, the family money came from her side. My Uncle Daniel delivered the money to an abandoned house in Atlanta, thirty thousand dollars in gold pieces, just like the directions said. Then he went back home to Alexandria to wait with my mother.”

“Did they release you?”

“Yeah, the bastards released me. They told me I could walk home to Virginia. It took me a month and a half, and I never would have made it without Morgan’s help. I was nothing but a shell of what I had been before. One look at what was left of me, and my mother lost her mind. She had never been a very stable person as it was, and the guilt she felt pushed her over the edge. My father wouldn’t have anything to do with me, mostly because I had cost him thirty thousand dollars. When my mother went insane, my father had her committed. He would have had me put away too, except that Morgan secreted me out of the house in the middle of the night.”

“Was your father mad when he found out you were gone?”

“He was livid. He is not accustomed to being out-smarted. He accused Uncle Daniel of aiding in my disappearance, but the police cleared my uncle of all wrong-doing being he had an alibi, which was a relief, because he hadn’t had anything to do with it. I hear from Uncle Daniel from time to time.”

“I guess they were never friends, your father and your uncle?”

“Friends? No. They are arch enemies, I assure you. My uncle was fighting my father in the courts to get my mother released from the sanitarium where my father had put her. He was fighting to get her released clear up until she died. He’s been fighting my father ever since then over the rest of the family fortune, claiming he should get a chunk of it by virtue of being married to my mother. My father, he never loved my mother. He married her for her money and to get a piece of that Old Dominion real estate that he prizes so highly. That’s all he cares about.”

“I’m sorry,” Hotch repeated, feeling so pointless.

“I wanted to put as much distance between myself and all those memories as possible, so I came out here. Uncle Daniel writes about twice a year. He even visited a couple years ago.”

“Wouldn’t your father think to look for you here? Aren’t you worried he’ll find you?”

“My old man was never comfortable in the desert—couldn’t wait to get away from here, which strikes me as humorous, actually. I would have thought he’d be right at home with all the rest of the cold-blooded lizards.”

“I’m so, so sorry,” Hotch choked, nosing gentle kisses against the doctor’s scarred cheek, wrapping both arms around him again. The young man got terribly quiet. His bitter smirk dried away almost instantly. Reid seemed to be holding his breath. Hotch pulled back and stared down into his face. Reid watched Hotch with hard, dangerous eyes.

“Marshal, you best get back on your own side of this bed, or we are going to have words,” Doc warned. Hotch blushed, unwinding his arms from around Reid and giving the doctor more space.

“Sorry,” Aaron mumbled.

“God, my head hurts,” Reid sighed, rubbing his eyes and turning onto his other side, giving his back to Hotch. He was shivering where he lay.

The Marshal’s eyes traced Doc’s lash scars again. When Doc was curled up that way, with his knees to his chest, Hotch could easily see the continuity of the scars, the way they connected to one another. The lash marks lined up when Reid was curled up, so he must have been in that position when he had been wounded. That sorrowful thought burned itself into Hotch’s mind. Somehow, though, the white, raised stripes were insignificant when compared to the invisible wounds the doctor was carrying around inside him. Hotch fought with the urge to put a comforting hand on Doc’s shoulder.

“You drank a lot last night,” Hotch said.

“That explains why I’m naked in bed with a complete stranger. Did I shoot Jim Riley?” Reid squinted.

“No, but you came awfully close.”

“I should apologize when I see him again.”

“He was being a dick. You don’t need to apologize,” Hotch said. “Doc, how can you stand to be so near to Foyet after he hurt you so badly?” Hotch asked.

“Captain Foyet hasn’t got the first clue who I am,” the doctor answered, sitting up on his side of the bed. He gently smacked the lumpy pillow, and put up a ghost of a smile when he saw dollar bills pop out of it. “Doubt he’s likely to remember some scrawny boy from a decade ago. He couldn’t possibly remember every man he ever tortured. There were too many of us.”

“But you remember him?”

“Did I rob a bank last night?” Reid asked.

“You won a few hands of poker. Several hands, actually.”

“Did I really? Oh, no,” Reid sighed, casting his sad eyes towards the ceiling. “Momma, I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me.”

Hotch sat up slowly as well. They were back to back, hands almost touching. Reid tipped his head back and relaxed it for a moment against Hotch’s shoulder.

“I am sorry I snapped at you,” Reid whispered.

“Ain’t no harm done,” Hotch reassured him. (Oh God, he was going to talk like them if he stayed here too long!)

“Your mother, she didn’t approve of gambling? Was she religious?”

“She didn’t go to church every Sunday, but from time to time, she would pop in on the Lord for a brief visit. I reckon they were acquaintances, not good friends. Once upon a time, they might have been closer, but when the preacher at her country church growing up put his hands up her skirts, and tried to force himself on her, and her not being more then eleven or twelve at the time, it soured Momma’s opinion of holy folk in general.”

“Did she…was she…” Hotch couldn’t finish the sentence.

“She was bruised-up from fighting him off, but she was fine. Let me tell you, when she come running out of that church crying, with her clothes all torn, my grandfather stomped back into that church with his sawed-off shotgun. He fixed the problem right there. There was no more of that shit gonna happen, I can assure you.”

“Your grandfather killed the preacher?” Hotch whispered.

“He asked the preacher a simple question, and when the preacher lied, Grand-dad took out one kneecap. He asked the same question, and the preacher lied again. Grand-dad took out his other kneecap. By that point, people had come running to see what the commotion was, and they talked Grand-dad out of his shotgun, and prevented him from killing the preacher. My Uncle Daniel was there. Saw the whole thing. He was ten at the time. The town doctor was able to save the preacher, but his days as a man of God were over. Uncle Daniel always use to say it was because he wasn’t tall enough to see over the pulpit anymore. To answer your question, it wasn’t gambling my momma disapproved of so much as me taking advantage of anyone stupid enough to play cards with me.”

“Does she ever answer you when you talk to her?” Hotch wondered.

“Now and again, but not in words,” Reid confided. “I can sense her in the wind – something about the way she used to pet my hair when I was small. She’s been in my house too, moving books around in the library. We argue about where Chaucer should be sitting on the shelves. He was always a favorite of hers.”

“Are you sure Foyet doesn’t know who you are?” Hotch worried, steering the conversation back to his target. Reid huffed impatiently.

“Marshal, I promise you, George Foyet has never made any indication that he recalls the circumstances of our previous acquaintance. If he had recognized me, he would have made light of it. He’s a sadistic bastard. It would be a big amusement to him. He’d slap me on the shoulder and laugh about it. ‘No hard feelings, Virginia. My, how you’ve changed.’ He hasn’t done any of that,” Reid insisted.

“Virginia?”

“He used to call me ‘Virginia’ – his idea of a joke. Said I was too beautiful to be all man. Said God must have made a mistake when he was putting me together. Must have gotten parts from both boxes all mixed up.”

“I am so sorry for what he did to you. Believe me, Doc, I know how sadistic Foyet can be. I’ve been following the son of a bitch ever since the end of the War. I know what he’s capable of. My dossier on him is in my saddlebags. You can read it if you like.”

“Do you think he missed it?” 

“Missed what?”

“Having a steady supply of people he could… people he could… you know? Poke and prod, and make scream for his pleasure? That’s why he does it. I think that’s why he cut up Mina. He can’t enjoy himself sexually without cutting someone, and conversely, cutting someone makes him enjoy himself sexually. Does that make sense?”

Hotch thought back to the blissful look on Foyet’s face when the killer had been kneeling on top of Hotch and cutting at his chest. Damn it if Doc hadn’t hit that thought right on the head. It gave Aaron the shivers to think on it too long.

“War does terrible things to men. It twists their hearts and their minds. We don’t know what Foyet went through that made him the way he is,” Hotch said.

“You’re assuming this began during the War. Haven’t you ever entertained the notion that Old George might have had this macabre pastime long before he was ever in a uniform? By the way, I resent your remark. Being hurt by someone does not give you permission to go out and hurt other people. Don’t you dare make excuses for what that son of a bitch does to people. I don’t care what he went through, who hurt him, or how bad it was. It does not justify what he has done to innocent people who never laid a hand on him. If you’re mad and you’ve been hurt, you hunt down the son of a bitch who hurt you, and you hurt him back. You do not prowl around this world, and cut up innocent men, women, and children.”

“That isn’t how I meant for that to sound. I’m the last person who is going to make excuses for the man. There is no excuse for George Foyet. You’re right though. It is possible he was maiming and killing long before the War allowed him a chance to refine his talents, so to speak,” Hotch offered humbly. “He got himself on our list of wanted fugitives for killing a federal marshal in North Carolina. I’ve been tracking Foyet’s ass ever since.”

“You can imagine my surprise when he came strolling down Main Street, crowing about how he had inherited the old Walker ranch. He told us that his Aunt Polly had died without children, and she had left him the ranch, and he was in town, looking to hire hands,” Doc smirked timidly.

“Small world,” Hotch lamented.

“God and His peculiar sense of humor, I’m sure. When I saw Captain Foyet, I forgot how to speak again, hid out at the house for a week with all the windows closed. I was half out of my mind with terror—it scared Morgan something awful. I had to tell Morgan the whole truth of what had happened. I had always hemmed around the edges before, but I knew I had to tell him the whole truth then. First thing Morgan did was threaten to ride out to the Walker ranch and do the Captain harm. I had to sit on Morgan to stop him from going. I knew what would happen if any man came riding up to that place, calling Foyet out in front of twenty ranch hands, let alone a black man? That was only going to get Morgan killed in some horrible, dreadful way. I begged Morgan to promise he wouldn’t do anything.”

"How long do you think he’ll stick to that promise?”

“As long as Old George keeps his distance from me, which he has, for the most part. Morgan only wavered on his promise once. Few months ago, Foyet, he showed up on our doorstep, asking for my help. One of his new ranch hands had managed to twist off most of an arm in a terrible accident. They were breaking horses, and the ranch hand had gotten himself caught in a rope tied to a saddle pommel on the meanest, nastiest mustang you ever laid eyes on. Anyhow, Old George showed up on the doorstop, asking for my help. It was plain to see he didn’t know me from Adam. So Morgan and I went out to the Walker ranch. I amputated the injured man’s arm for him. Don’t know how he didn’t bleed to death, because my hands were shaking something horrible. George Foyet paid me for my services in gold pieces, and he gave me the mustang as well.”

“Do you still have the horse?”

“Aw hell no. Zephyrus kicked me in the chest on the way back home, damned near broke my ribs. I took off his ropes, and turned that four-legged devil back loose to the desert wind where he belonged, though I do see him from time to time. He’ll come wandering down to our place in the valley when he gets lonesome for company. I confess that I do leave some oats and some water out for him, in case. I told Callie to steer clear of him if she ever sees him. Warned Maggie too.”

“How does Foyet manage to run a horse ranch and wander around killing people?” Hotch asked.

“Foyet’s senior hand runs the ranch when George gets that evil itch and has to go meander off to do what he does best, what makes him most happy.”

“You must have been pretty shaken by the way Foyet appeared at your house.”

“Morgan said it took me a while to return to my usual shade of pale, somewhere between butt-ugly and just plain hideous,” Reid joked timidly. “I have been keeping my eyes on Captain Foyet as much as I dare, watching what he’s up to, keeping notes on the people who disappear, the ones that turn up, and the bodies that never turn up too. Bet you’d like to know all about that, wouldn’t you, Marshal? You and I could compare notes on him.”

“I’d like that,” Hotch remarked, getting out of the bed and getting into his pants. He tossed the doctor his clothes as well. Reid pulled on his shirt, and then slid into his underwear and his pants.

“Where did Morgan wander off to?” Doc asked. 

“He left with Miss Emily,” Hotch said. 

Reid cringed. “He better watch out. Miss Jennifer don’t like when a man gets too attached to one of her girls. If she thinks you have monogamy or matrimony in mind for one of her assets, she gets downright hostile. She’ll even pick up a side arm if you push her too far. She chased the Reverend Gideon for three miles once! I had no idea the Reverend could run like that. Most amazing thing you ever saw,” Reid relayed, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“What had the Reverend done?” Hotch gasped.

“It boiled down to jealousy, I think, though concern for immortal souls also played a part. Miss Jennifer’s brothel was by far more popular with the menfolk and the miners than the church was. After listening to wives and sweethearts complaining about the alienation of affections, the Reverend decided he was going to remedy the situation. He camped out in front of here for weeks on end, preaching about sin and shame, and how it was wrong for a woman to lie with a man outside of the sacred union of marriage. You can imagine how well Miss Jennifer took to that message. The damage was done though. Reverend Gideon’s message sunk right inside the heart of Miss Jennifer’s pride and joy, Miss Elle Greenaway. Miss Jennifer and Miss Ellie had been orphaned by the same scarlet fever epidemic that swept through a wagon train headed West back in ’55. Wasn’t much left but a couple families and a bunch of children. Miss Jennifer and Miss Ellie settled around here together, and started this business together. They were like sisters.”

“Get to the part where Miss Jennifer was chasing the Reverend with a side arm,” Hotch urged.

“Come to find out, all the while the Reverend was preaching to Miss Jennifer’s girls about sin and shame, he had been paying Miss Ellie twenty dollars a week for her exclusive company, which is expressly against the rules of the house.”

“Oh….” Hotch whistled. “The Reverend being a man of God, you’d think he could rise above such worldly desires.”

“The Reverend was as human as the next man. I don’t fault him for his needs, and no one else should either. We can’t help who we fall in love with. Besides, the Reverend wasn’t molesting a child. Miss Ellie was a grown adult, and would have said no if she felt no. She was not a meek and mild woman, but very strong-minded and more than willing to stand up for herself. Truth of it was, the Reverend had very genuine feelings for Miss Ellie, and she for him too. Any fool could have seen that. The Reverend was a good man, an intelligent man, and he genuinely cared about his flock. We had many lively debates. I do miss him from time to time.”

“So Miss Jennifer filled the Reverend full of lead?”

“No, he was too spry for her. She couldn’t catch him. Near as I can guess, she filled his butt with buckshot, but he survived. He headed over towards Flagstaff, I reckon, maybe further. He never showed his face around here again. It’s been four years, I guess, since Miss Jennifer chased the Reverend away. That very day Miss Jennifer chased him off, Miss Ellie packed her things, and had a screaming match with Miss Jennifer downstairs in front of God and everybody. Then Miss Ellie took the train East, hoping to find out where the Reverend had gone.”

“Wow…” Hotch whispered.

“Miss Ellie was in love, real love, with the only man who had given her what she had been looking for all her life – unconditional attention and affection, the kind that moved above her cleavage. The Reverend had appreciated her for her mind, and her sense of humor, and her smile.”

“She told you about this?”

“Aw honey, she told everyone in earshot exactly what her feelings were.”

Hotch couldn’t help but chuckle at the impish smile Doc was wearing.

“Don’t worry, Marshal. It’s usually pretty peaceful around these parts. We don’t get excitement like that too often. We sure could use a full time sheriff though. We’ve talked about it for years at the town meetings, and we're all willing to chip in and pay part of his salary, but we can never seem to find the right man for the job. We keep looking. Can you manage to get yourself together and head over to Miss Penelope’s hotel?” Reid asked.

“I’ll manage,” Hotch replied, nodding. He glanced around and realized that his shirt had been returned. It had been mended and cleaned, and was practically as good as new. There was a fresh bottle of whiskey on the dresser beside his folded shirt.

So had the Countess come into their room through the locked door last night? Did she have a master key to every room, or had she climbed in from the balcony? Hotch stared at the balcony, and it gave him quite a start to realize that the chair which had been beside the bed was now outside on said balcony. This idea of that gave him pause. He had never even sensed that anyone else had been in the room last night. Had the Countess stood there for very long, watching them sleep? Who had moved the chair out on the balcony?

“You tell Miss Penelope that you’re a friend of mine. I’ll meet you there in half an hour,” Reid ordered. It was a novelty for Hotch, taking orders from other people, so he played along, smiling to himself.

“Where are you headed?” Hotch asked.

“To find Morgan, and to buy you a pony,” Reid smiled, slipping his feet into his boots.

“I feel right naked without a gun,” Hotch complained, eyeing the gun belt slung on the bed post with Reid’s satchel. A handsome Smith & Wesson revolver rested in the gun belt.

“Your horse is back at our place. Morgan found him wandering with a hurt foot. You need a different horse to use in the meantime. What’s his name?”

“Who?”

“Your horse.”

“I…. I have no idea,” Hotch replied. "I don’t speak horse.”

“Hmm. Maybe I’ll ask him. In the meantime, I’ll go see the Strausses. Don’t know what happened to your guns, but I’ll see what I can do for you. Wonder if the Archers are home yet from San Francisco. Even if they’re not, Miss Swann will be able to help me. Don’t want you running around feeling nekid. Any other requests, Marshal?”

“Breakfast?” Hotch said hopefully.

“It’s downright expensive to share a bed with you,” Reid murmured with warm humor in his eyes again. He opened the pillow case to Hotch and let him take what he wanted. Hotch pulled out a ten and nothing more. “Go on, honey. You need more than that. Go ahead. Don’t be shy. We’ll go half. That seems fair. You go on over to Miss Penny’s. She will not disappoint you. Trust me. Have the biscuits and gravy,” Doc reiterated, slowly and seriously. “Biscuits. Gravy. Biscuits. Gravy. You want them already, don’t you? Am I making you drool?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Hotch smiled, laughing in spite of himself. Doc tilted a shy smile at him, and slowly finished getting dressed.


	10. Miss Penelope's Hotel and Restaurant

The moment Doc and Morgan appeared in the doorway of Miss Penelope’s hotel and restaurant, someone grabbed Doc’s right arm and pulled him aside. Morgan’s face went through a series of expressions as he watched, starting with alarm and ending with a big fat grin. A large woman in a bright yellow dress with a decorative bustle on the back had been the one to grab Doc. She dragged him through the space behind the front desk, and quickly into the small office slightly off to the right. She slammed the door. She whirled to face Doc, her face filled with panic and excitement.

“The Archers!” she exclaimed in a loud whisper, shaking the doctor by his shoulders.

“Yes?” Reid replied.

“Doc! They’re in the dining room! You can’t go in there!” Miss Penelope insisted. “What are we going to do?!”

“Nothing to worry about. Where’s Callie?” Reid replied, patting Miss Penelope on the arm and peeling her fingers off his shoulders. Morgan knocked on the office door, and Reid opened it, peered out, and ushered his friend inside.

“Tell him he can’t go in the dining room,” Miss Penelope pleaded.

“Why can’t he go there?” Morgan asked.

“The Archers are back from San Francisco! Miss Lila is in there, and she’s been asking about him!”

“I know they’re back. I was down to their store earlier, and Miss Swann told me they were back. Where’s Callie?” Reid asked again. “It’s all right, Miss Penny. It’s not like Miss Lila is going to tie my hands and feet together, and toss me up over her shoulders like a stray calf that got away from the herd.”

“Callie is upstairs with Sophie. I’ll collect her for you. I wanted to warn you about the Archers first,” Miss Penelope insisted. “Be careful in there.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it,” Reid smiled.

“Doc, why are you wearing three guns? You expecting another shoot-out over the biscuits?” Miss Penelope asked, glancing down at Reid’s slender waist.

“No,” he whined. “The Marshal needed a piece. He lost his guns somewhere between here and there.”

“You bought the Marshal a piece?” Miss Penelope asked. 

“Yeah,” Doc nodded.

“That’s kinda personal, isn’t it?” Miss Penelope ventured on. “You gotta be right fond of a man to buy him a gun.”

“The man needs a weapon to do his job. I was doing him a favor, that’s all,” Doc growled defensively.

“No need to get feisty with me,” she grinned. “I put the Marshal along the left wall so he could look out the windows. He’s got his eyes glued to the train depot. Is he expecting someone to arrive on the ten o’clock?”

“Not that I know of,” Reid answered.

"He asked for the biscuits and gravy, and he’s on his second helping. What will you two be having for breakfast?”

“What’s the special?” Morgan asked.

“Oh, baby. It’s all special,” Miss Penelope beamed at Morgan, pinching his cheek.

Miss Penelope tucked Reid’s arm in her own and escorted him out of the small office, back through the space behind the front desk, and then charged him through the doors of the dining room as if she hoped to get him all the way to his table without being way-laid by the Archers. Morgan kept himself on Doc’s left, eyes at the ready.

There was one calm second as they swung through the doors. Reid spotted Hotch, and gave him a tip of his hat and polite nod. Miss Penelope started to walk Reid through the dining tables. Even those tables that weren’t occupied with early morning customers waiting for the ten o’clock train were laid out with spotless white table clothes and fine china. Hotch smiled at Reid and anticipated his arrival at the table by standing up and wiping his mouth with the fine white napkin.

Reid did not get very far inside the doors in spite of Miss Penelope’s best efforts. He hadn’t taken three steps before he was utterly besieged by a small blonde woman and two other people whom Hotch presumed were the girl’s parents.

“DOCTOR REID?! Aren’t you even going to say hello?!” the small blonde exclaimed, throwing a hug around him that would have killed most men. She expelled a stream of words interspersed with excited hugs and squeezes. “I am so HAPPY to see YOU! I couldn’t wait to get home and see YOU! I have such GOOD NEWS!”

“Miss Archer. Mrs. Archer. Mr. Archer. How was San Francisco?” Doc asked as he was being squeezed by all three of them now. Miss Penelope was standing off to the side, unsure which one of the Archers to grab and pull off of him first. Morgan was stifling a grin, wincing, looking away and back again.

“All Lila could talk about was getting back home to see you and tell you her news!” Mrs. Archer beamed. Mr. Archer beamed as well. They were all smiles.

“Look at me! Look at me! Can you tell any difference?” Miss Lila asked, her voice loud enough that everyone in the restaurant turned to stare and watch their conversation.

“The Big City must have treated you very well. You’ve gained…” the doctor was saying as he stared at Lila’s hips and butt. She was not wearing a corset or a bustle. He quickly stopped himself and rethought that sentence. Even a socially-awkward man can usually tell when he was about to anger a woman. The doctor knew he was headed into dangerous territory because Lila’s pretty face clouded with fury before she quickly softened it. She thrust a hand straight into the doctor’s face and pointed.

“I GOT MARRIED!!” she wailed happily, shaking the diamond ring at him, pulling it back, shaking it at him again. Doc smiled tenderly at her, finally seeming to understand what she was so excited over. Morgan’s eyes got wide with surprise.

“Such a nice young man, from a good family,” Mrs. Archer assured Reid, who nodded along, agreeing every step of the way.

“I met him on a Monday, and he proposed to me by Wednesday, and we were married that Sunday!” Miss Lila squealed happily.

Hotch could tell by this point that Reid was not going to be able to break free of this group, even with Miss Penelope’s help, so he walked quietly and carefully up to the assembly and waited to be noticed. He was smiling the whole while as he took in the conversation. Not that he had to be real close to be know what was going on, because Miss Lila was talking so loudly that there wasn’t a person in the four-state area who wasn’t hearing every word coming out of her mouth.

“That’s so wonderful, Miss Lila. I’m very happy for you,” Doc promised. Miss Lila took the doctor’s hands and placed them flat against her lower abdomen.

“Can you feel it?!” she squealed. Reid was freezing up, struggling to get his thin wrists out of Lila’s powerful grip. She stuffed his hands practically down between her thighs, and Reid reacted as if she was pushing his hands against a hot stove. “I’M GONNA HAVE A BABY!” she exclaimed. “I was so thrilled when I found out, and the first thing I said, the very first thing, you can ask Momma, was that I had to come home, so you could take care of me, and make sure my little blessed bundle of happiness has a safe journey into this world. Oh, Doc! Aren’t you going to say anything?” Miss Lila beamed joyously at him.

“Have….have you met Marshal Hotchner?” Reid whimpered. At last he was able to pull his hands free of Miss Archer’s amazing grip. His thin wrists were already bruising up from the rough handling.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Miss Lila purred, putting a hand at the Marshal which she clearly expected him to kiss.

At first Miss Lila seemed like a typical Southern Belle. Hotch was well-acquainted with her type – all sweetness on the outside and all steel underneath. The last woman like Miss Archer that Hotch had tangled with had been the textbook definition of polite when he came to her house to serve a warrant for her fugitive brother. She had smiled right to his face before she pulled out a Remington double-ought six rifle from her voluminous skirts and put a gaping hole through the other marshal who was with Hotch. Aaron wasn’t going to forget that day, ever.

Taking Miss Archer’s dainty limb made Hotch nervous. He had an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach, like she might flip him over forwards and backwards, and do him all kinds of physical violence, like this particularly tricky Asian suspect in New York had done once when Hotch had tried to arrest him. Hotch nervously dotted a polite kiss to Lila’s little hand, and quickly pulled back out of her reach.

“Ma’am,” he said, touching his hat.

“How do you do, Marshal Hotchner?”

“Fine, thank you. Congratulations on your marriage, and your wonderful news,” Aaron added, giving the doctor a curious look.

The Marshal’s eyes dropped, and they glued themselves to the three gun belts that Reid had on. Aaron gave an unconscious gasp of pleasure as he took the doctor’s thin hips in both hands and turned him carefully around, lifting the back of Doc’s unbuttoned vest in order to examine the weapons closely. He had a weapon on each hip and one tucked at his waist in the back.

“You may have your choice of the Le Mat revolver or the Remington. Keep your hands off my Smith & Wesson,” Reid told him, pushing the hands away.

“Oh, the Le Mat. Definitely the Le Mat. It’s lovely,” Hotch purred. His face was shining with excitement. He dug his fingers anxiously into Reid’s abdomen in order to unlatch the correct gun belt from Doc’s slender hips. Doc squirmed around, making the task harder. Hotch didn’t waste any time putting the gun belt around his own hips, and pulling it tight again. Aaron pulled the well-maintained Le Mat handgun out of its holster to examine it closely, reverently.

“You’re welcome. Here. These may come in handy as well,” Reid said, digging around in his satchel and pulling out a box of bullets. He paused, tilting his head as he watched the Marshal inspecting the handgun with all the pride of a father inspecting a newborn child. “You’re welcome,” Doc added again with a hint of a smile.

“Thank you. It’s beautiful. I had a pair of Le Mats once before. Haley gave me a set as a wedding present. I lost them both during….it’s…oh…” Aaron smiled, draping an arm on the doctor and squeezing him before smacking a kiss against his cheek. Doc went utterly beet-red and took a nervous step back from Hotch.

“There was the most incredible Webley Bulldog, a snub- nose pocket revolver, but I feared you would be insulted by the length of the barrel – think I meant it as a slight at your anatomy,” Reid mused. He unbuckled the second belt. “Here. You may have the Remington if you wish. It’s much too heavy for my hand. Figure it’ll fit yours very well.”

Hotch blushed hot, and couldn’t find words. He babbled syllables that sounded like ‘thankyou thankyou’ and buckled the second belt around his hips, easing the two buckles to sit comfortably together. He latched onto Doc for another hug, and this time, Doc squirmed away from him.

“You feel better?” Doc asked. 

“Yes, I do,” Hotch assured him.

“Bet he’d pee on the carpet if you showed him what’s in the attic,” Morgan interjected quietly. He had been watching the whole exchange with interest. It occurred to Hotch that it was probably Morgan who had moved the chair from beside the bed out onto the balcony to stand watch over Doc while he slept. Morgan’s eyes were drooping, and he yawned now and again.

“What’s in the attic?” Hotch latched onto the words hungrily.

“You don’t need to know about that,” Reid stalled, patting him on the arm.

“Not to mention the trunk in the hay loft?” Morgan teased. Reid gave Morgan a meaningful glance, and his friend fell quiet, but his crooked smile spoke volumes.

“You got a secret stash, Doc?” Miss Lila questioned. “You wouldn’t be the only man around here to be amassing a private stockpile. Oh, Doc, I am so hurt. Here I thought you kept coming to our store to see me, when it was just guns and explodey things you were interested in,” she pretended for a moment to be sulking, but her eyes glowed with mischief and appreciation as she eyed Doc up and down. He was melting under all the attention.

“What kind of stockpile do you have?” Hotch asked. 

“Nothing illegal,” Doc insisted. "Just a few tiny, itty, bitty, interesting things I have accumulated over the years. I started in artillery, to answer one of your previous questions."

Hotch processed that thought with wide eyes. Miss Penelope stifled a broad grin and elbowed Reid in the side. He elbowed her back, and gave her a serious frown.

“Boys and their toys,” Miss Archer observed wryly. “Why didn’t you get the Marshal one of the new Colt Peacemakers? Daddy was so happy to get a couple in stock. They’ll go fast, you know?”

“I didn’t like the feel of either of the Colts,” Reid replied. “They are brand new. Let someone else work out their kinks.”

“Colts are by far the most reliable handgun ever built,” Miss Lila insisted.

“I was sorely tempted by that mint-condition Zouwave rifle,” Doc said. “But I wasn’t sure the Marshal liked the feel of a rifle in comparison to a revolver.”

“I knew that rifle would catch your eye,” Miss Lila grinned at her father, who nodded. “First thing I said to Daddy was, Doc is going to want this. Was I right?”

“You were right,” Mr. Archer said proudly.

“Doc, I’m telling you, the Colts are far more reliable than any Le Mat will ever be. You can’t beat American craftsmanship when it comes to handguns,” Miss Lila fussed. “The Peacemaker is going to be a best-seller. You sure you don’t want one? I’ll hold it, special for you.”

“I will stick with my baby here, thank you. I far prefer a Smith & Wesson to a Colt.”

“A Colt outclasses a Smith & Wesson every day of the week.”

“I could not disagree more,” Doc said tartly. The challenge to her opinion made Miss Archer’s eyes sparkle even more as she gazed up at Reid. “This baby will outlast any gun out there. You got to be careful with Colts. So many of them were forgeries built on the fly. The forgeries are so hard to tell from the originals, at least until you take them apart and examine the fittings, or until one explodes in your hands when you get it too hot.”

“How well I know,” Mr. Archer lamented, stretching out his right limb. Hotch’s eyes got wide when he realized Mr. Archer only had three and a half fingers remaining on his dominant hand.

“That Le Mat there, she is a piece of work. She’s solid, and she’s fast, and she’s well-maintained. Whoever owned that gun loved it dearly, as I know the Marshal will. Wish I could find its mate,” Doc lamented.

“Why don’t you come back to the shop, and me and you will hunt around in the stock room for it. There’s weeks’ worth of shipments to go through. How does that sound?” Miss Archer persuaded.

Miss Penelope cackled and hurried forward to take Miss Lila by the shoulders and hug her. Morgan jumped back to avoid serious injury as Miss Penelope clutched Miss Lila tight and shook her like a rag doll.

“All this talk about guns makes me nervous. Let’s talk about something cheerful. Why didn’t you bring your new husband back to Boulder City with you, Miss Lila? I’m sure everyone would love to meet the young man who swept you off your feet and made you his wife and put you in a family way in such a short amount of time! You’ve only been away since Christmas! You must be thrilled! So happy for you! And a baby too? Such wonderful news! Why didn’t you bring him back with you so we could all meet him?” Miss Penelope demanded.

“He’s got important work in San Francisco, that’s why. He’s a lawyer. John Mitchum. His friends call him John. I call him Mitch, cause I think that sounds more…. more… dangerous. Mitch. Don’t you agree?”

“What a beautiful ring? Can I see? Oh my! What a diamond that is,” Miss Penelope gasped, motioning with a tilt of her head that if they wished to make an escape from this entanglement, now would be their best chance. Reid shook his head no and waited patiently. Morgan glanced at the ring and nodded his approval.

“It is pretty, isn’t it? It belonged to Mitch’s grandmother. A family heirloom all the way from England. I just hope I can live up to all his expectations,” Miss Lila gushed.

“Oh, darling! He better hope he can live up to yours,” Miss Penelope squeaked, hugging Miss Lila again. “Go! Go!” she said. Morgan took the doctor’s arm and nudged him towards the door. Reid stood his ground, narrowing his eyes at Miss Penelope. “Go be happy! That’s what the world needs. More love! More marriage!” Miss Penelope sighed, finally letting go of Miss Lila, and giving Reid a frustrated frown. “Sorry to interrupt your conversation with Doc. Was there anything you gentlemen needed before you had to be on your way?”

“Pie,” Reid said.

“Pie?” Miss Penelope frowned, then sighed. “What kind of pie?”

“Well, it’s a long story,” Reid began.

“It’s always a long story with you,” Miss Penelope observed wryly.

“I promised the Marshal one of your gooseberry pies,” Reid added, giving Hotch a quick pat on the arm before dodging another attempted grab by Miss Archer. He was quicker on his feet than he at first appeared. Miss Lila looked frustrated, but not entirely defeated. She was enjoying the chase.

“Come to the kitchen. You can help me make your pie. I’ll feed you breakfast while you’re in there,” Miss Penelope said, taking Reid’s arm in her grip and marching him from the dining room and through the swinging doors which led to the kitchen.

Hotch and Morgan tipped their hats at the Archers and quickly followed.


	11. Gooseberry Pie

“So….” Hotch whistled softly, leaning against the heavy wooden table that dominated the kitchen area of Miss Penelope’s hotel and restaurant. Wait staff raced back and forth around him, wondering why he was lounging around in their way.

“So…” Reid whistled softly back, studying the pie crust he was attempting to roll out on the floured surface using only one hand.

“You like my hair?” the small girl sitting on Reid’s hip and in his arms asked him. She pointed her long braid at him, and tickled his chin with the end of it.

“Yes, I do. You look very pretty. Thank you, Sophie. How did you ever get her to hold still long enough? I usually have to sit on Callie, or tie her to the chair, to be able to fix her hair for her. My horse Maggie gets her hair brushed more often than Callie does.”

The young girl on the other side of the table ducked her head as she laughed softly. She hid behind Miss Penelope’s bright yellow form and peered at the doctor.

“How’s this pie crust look to you?” Doc asked Callie as she leaned her head on his shoulder. 

“Not round yet, Papa,” she told him.

“Thank you, Sophie,” Miss Penelope said to the young girl. The girl smiled timidly again. Hotch judged that Sophie was no more than seven. She was a thin, small girl with bright red hair and light brown eyes, and she was terribly quiet. There was something sorrowful about the girl, but he couldn’t place what it was. Hotch would not have guessed that Miss Penelope was Sophie’s parent, as the hotel proprietress was very blonde with a curvaceous figure. Maybe Sophie favored her father? It was impolite to ask, so he kept his questions to himself. Miss Penelope patted Sophie on the head, dotted a kiss on her cheek, and the girl hurried from the kitchen.

“Bye, Sophie!” Callie hollered. Sophie waved as she disappeared out the doors.

“You wanna give us a hand here, Marshal?” Reid requested, poking one end of the rolling pin towards Aaron. “Be careful of your stitches.”

“How much experience you think I got with pie making?” Hotch muttered, taking hold of the rolling pin. Doc stepped aside and let Hotch ball up the dough to start over. Hotch mashed the ball flat, casting an eye sideways.

Calliope Reid was a perfect miniature of the Countess, from her dark hair, to her oval face, to her long nose, to her deep brown eyes. There was no denying exactly who that child’s mother was. Hotch was sure the doctor knew this too. The question in his mind was why the doctor had never confronted the Countess about the truth.

Of course, if the doctor had nursed the Countess back to health, he must have known the extent of her medical condition, and whether or not she had recently given birth to a child. Even if he wasn’t a university-educated medical doctor, that kind of thing should have been easy to spot.

Had Miss Emily given birth while on the train, and that was why they had left her off at the depot, because she was ill, and she suddenly had a infant with her that she hadn’t had before? Had she been upset about being pregnant, and that was why she had blocked the knowledge of the events from her mind? Hotch’s mind whirled with questions and possibilities. Had the pregnancy been unexpected, and the birth, by herself on the train, had that been so traumatic that she had had to pretend it wasn’t real?

Doc’s mother had been a woman of delicate temperament. He had watched her have a nervous breakdown. Reid’s experience with his own mother had led him to treat the Countess with great care. Perhaps Doc had felt it was better to play along with Miss Emily’s delusions, to accept her insistence that she had found the baby, rather than press her for the truth and upset her. Questions whirled around in Hotch’s mind, but they would have to wait for another time.

“What?” Reid asked of the sad and inquisitive examination Hotch was giving Callie. Aaron shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, still staring at Reid’s daughter. Doc hugged her closer as if to protect her from Hotch’s scrutiny. He could sense the Marshal’s curiosity about her. There was no denying how dear the child was to her adoptive father, and that was probably what mattered the most in this situation. Hotch kept his thoughts on the topic to himself.

“Miss Lila sure knows a lot about handguns,” Hotch stated, going out on an entirely different tangent, but also one that had intrigued him. Reid snorted at him.

“She ought to know about them. She’s been around guns her whole life. Her daddy made all his money buying and selling weapons during the War,” Doc confided. “It was all business to him, nothing personal. He sold armaments to both sides, and was careful to make no enemies. After the War, he picked up his family and came out this way. They had a son, Abel, but he died in Oklahoma. He’s buried there near Stillwater. Miss Lila, she stepped up and filled the void her brother left, helping her father with the family business. She’s got a good head on her shoulders. She’s a smart woman. I wish she would not base so much of her self-esteem on whether or not she’s got a damned ring on her finger though. She’s delightful, and charming, and very sweet. She could have any man she wanted.”

“Not any man,” Morgan commented. Doc shot him a dirty look, and Morgan laughed it off.

“Are you and Miss Archer close?” Hotch ventured, beginning to understand the Countess’s dislike of Miss Lila Archer. He wasn’t feeling particularly keen on her either right at the moment. Reid scowled at Aaron for his troubles. Morgan snickered.

“Close?” Miss Penelope mocked, shooing Hotch back from the pie crust and snatching her rolling pin away from him. She balled the dough back up with expert hands and started over again. “That pint-sized pixie is the most dangerous creature in this town,” she fussed as she smacked and flattened the ball.

“Is she?” Hotch blinked.

“She’s been decimating the male population of these parts ever since her daddy gave her permission to get married. One by one, after they marry Miss Archer, something terrible happens to every one of her husbands,” Miss Penelope explained.

Hotch’s instincts raised up like the hairs on the back of his neck. Was Miss Archer a killer like George Foyet??

“First there was the railroad baron, Mr. Boulder,” Reid began.

“He got killed in a train robbery,” Miss Penelope interjected. Hotch’s hairs sat back down in annoyed disgust. It wasn’t at all what he had thought, and he couldn’t hope to hide his disappointment.

“They were an odd couple,” Morgan murmured. “He was old enough to be her grand-daddy.”

“It was kinda romantic,” Doc offered hopefully. “Mr. Boulder was only in his fifties. He said he married Miss Lila because she reminded him of his first wife,” Doc added. “That’s sweet. Isn’t it?” he asked, nudging Hotch.

“No,” Hotch said, shaking his head. 

“See?” Morgan added.

“Anyway….” Reid frowned at the two of them. “After Mr. Boulder was killed, and left Miss Archer a well-off woman, Mr. Perreault came along.”

“The timber baron from Quebec,” Miss Penelope continued. “He was French Canadian, and rolling in money. They must grow ‘em small up in those parts. He and Miss Archer were so cute together, one about as big as the other.”

“Least they were close in age,” Morgan interjected.

“He got killed in an avalanche during their honeymoon in the Colorado Mountains,” Reid whispered grimly. “Mr. Perreault was standing right next to Miss Lila one second, holding her hand, and telling her he would love her forever, and the next second, Mr. Perreault had disappeared down the side of the mountain in this thunderous crash of snow and rock. Very tragic. He was a nice man.”

“Guess it goes to show,” Morgan said. 

“What’s that?” Doc asked.

“Forever could a whole lot shorter than we imagine,” Morgan mused. Miss Penelope whacked him on the arm to stop his chuckling. Doc bit back a smile and ducked his chin down. “No, in a good way, a good way!” Morgan insisted, ducking Miss Penelope’s next swing. “You got to seize the moments you have. Baby girl, I am looking at the positives here! Quit banging on me,” he laughed, getting out of reach her reach.

“You shouldn’t be making light. This is serious. Two years ago, it was Mr. Magnusson, that nice young man from Sweden. What a shame! I burst into tears when she told me they were going to get married, because I knew then that he wasn’t long for this world!” Miss Penelope exclaimed as she threw the crust over a pie plate and whipped it around at high speed, darting her fingers against the bottom to push the crust into place.

“What happened to him?” Hotch worried.

“He was a missionary who travelled around. Had this box of bibles with him that he would give out to the native tribes. He got ambushed while crossing the New Mexico territory. Someone had torn the pages out of those bibles and stuffed them down Mr. Magnusson’s throat,” Reid explained as Miss Penelope poured a heaping bowl of green berries into the pie crust. Even after two servings of biscuits and gravy, the smell of those tart berries, and all that cinnamon and sugar? It was making the Marshal’s mouth water. Callie must have felt the same way. She reached for the berry bowl with both hands. Reid danced her around to the other side of the table where Morgan stood in order to take her out of reach of the bowl.

“Then the wolves got a hold of him, and by the time they were done, there wasn’t enough left of poor Mr. Magnusson to fill a matchbox,” Miss Penelope lamented. “THEN!” she exclaimed as she flattened out another crust and whipped a knife through it, cutting it to shreds. “Then at the Christmas Party last year, what do you think Miss Archer got up to?”

“I don’t know,” Hotch worried. Morgan clucked and shook his head. Doctor Reid was already blushing.

“Miss Lila was barely out of her mourning period for Mr. Magnusson, and she had one cup too many of my special punch. She was feeling blue because of the holidays and all. I can relate! Honey, there ain’t none of us immune to feeling sorry for ourselves now and then. Lo and behold, when my back was turned, and I was complimenting Mrs. Paulson on how well-behaved her boys were, Miss Lila cornered Doctor Reid under the holiday mistletoe. That girl about sucked the life right out of him before me and Miss Emily could pull them apart!” Miss Penelope wailed.

Hotch looked to Reid, and saw the terrible humiliation on his young face. Morgan patted the doctor sympathetically on the shoulder before continuing to help Miss Penelope weave the shreds of pie crust into a lattice shape over the top of the pie. Morgan interjected his own thoughts about the incident.

“Miss Archer stood under the mistletoe half the night before she finally caught Doc there. That girl had to kiss a lot of frogs before her prince finally came along. I kept telling him to go in through the back door, that he’d be safer that way. Why don’t you ever listen to me?”

“I do listen to you,” Reid whispered. “I had one too many cups of special punch myself, and I had lost track of whether I was at the front door or the back door of the place,” he laughed.

“Wonder how long Mr. Mitchum is going to last?” Morgan pondered.

“I must confess, if I wasn’t very concerned for Miss Archer’s safety, I would be playing matchmaker between her and Old George,” Reid admitted shamefully.

Hotch snickered again. Callie puckered up and planted a kiss on Reid’s cheek, throwing her arms tight around the neck.

“Papa, did you help Missus Paulson have baby horses?” she asked.

“Yes, I did. She now has four more, very fine colts, one of which she has promised to you. I am to bring you over to visit in a couple weeks, and let you pick one out. Of course, the colt will have to stay with her mother for a while, but they will all be fine horses when they’re older. I would recommend you pick the Appaloosa, because she had the sweetest disposition.”

“Apple-loosa?” Callie repeated. “What does that mean?” 

“It means she’s different colors, not a solid color horse like Hal is. She’s mostly black with a blaze of white right there,” Reid explained, rubbing foreheads with Callie. “She’s got white snowflakes on her rump too,” he added.

“Is she related to Uncle Morgan?”

“Darling, Uncle Morgan does not have white snowflakes on his rump,” Reid replied as Morgan’s serious face cracked with a smile.

“But Uncle Morgan told me you and Hal are brothers, because you have the same color hair,” Callie declared loudly. “Why can’t Uncle Morgan and the pretty baby colt be brothers too?”

Doc squinted at Morgan, and Morgan squinted back.

“It could happen,” Morgan replied, joking but pretending to be serious.

“Darling,” Doc said to Callie. “Hal and I are not brothers. We’re not related at all, even if we do have the same color hair. He’s a horse. I’m a human.”

“But you told me your daddy was nothing but a horse’s ass,” Callie declared. Morgan was snorting laughter again. Reid was staring at his child, and struggled to hold back his amusement.

“There’s a big difference between being a horse’s ass and being a horse.”

“Sophie said I look like Miss Emily. Are we sisters? Does that make me a countess too?” Callie asked.

Miss Penelope gasped. Morgan got suddenly very quiet. It felt like the air had been sucked right out of the room. Doc took a deep breath and launched himself into the explanation.

“Calliope Jane, people can look alike and not be related. It happens all the time. You and the Marshal here favor each other too, don’t you? Dark hair, dark eyes, them handsome cheekbones. He might think he’s German and Scot, but I would wager a good sum that he could have some Indian in him. Maybe that makes him a great hunter. Maybe his people came here to Colonial Virginia and married with the native tribes. Northern and Eastern Europeans tend towards blue eyes and lighter hair, and yet he’s got dark hair and dark eyes, so maybe if not Indian then some Italian or some Moorish blood? I don’t think he’s red enough to be a Scot or a Celt. Could be a hidden trait, a recessive gene pool, though. Maybe he’s from one of those German families with Roman roots, from when Caesar marched through Gaul and Britannia. Maybe a German family with Jewish roots? That beautiful Mediterranean olive takes lots of generations of Northern European to bleach it away. Do you understand where I’m going with this?”

Callie studied Hotch with beady eyes. It was not unlike the way Miss Emily had stared at him yesterday, but considering the way Doc was glaring at the Marshal, Aaron knew better than to remark on that observation out loud.

“No…..” Callie answered honestly. "I have no idea."

“Dutch…. maybe…. but not blond enough to be Dutch, even in the sunlight. Deutsch. Pennsylvania Deutsch, that I would agree to easily. Mm hmm,” Doc went on, squinting, studying Hotch, tilting left and right to study his face intently. “A strong hereditary tendency towards Lutheran obstinacy would explain quite a bit about you,” he decided.

“Doc,” Morgan chided softly, breaking the thread of Reid’s thoughts.

“Where was I?” Doc shook himself and got back on track. “What I’m saying, Callie, is you and the Marshal are not related in the slightest.”

“No,” Callie said.

“You can still be friends with the Marshal, right?” 

“Maybe,” she offered sullenly.

“You are already good friends with Miss Emily. She’s so very nice to you, she and Miss Penelope both are. Hell, girl, Uncle Morgan and I were carting your little nekid butt around in flour sacks until Miss Emily insisted that she would make dresses for you. Wasn’t that nice of her?”

“You were carrying me in a flour sack?” Callie exclaimed. Her eyes landed on the large sack of flour open on the table, and she stared back at Doc, offended.

“We used to cut a hole for each arm and one for your head. Miss Emily said it was embarrassing. I said my sewing skills were slim to none – thank goodness for mail order catalogues. I’d order all kinds of clothes for you, but you’d outgrow them in a week. You don’t know how many of your hand-me-downs I gave to Mrs. Paulson when she had Becky. But Miss Emily, she is a very fine seamstress, and you look so pretty in the clothes she makes for you. She wouldn’t be doing that if you weren’t friends, right?”

“Right,” Callie nodded.

“All right then,” Doc decided. “Does that answer your question?”

“Not really,” Callie frowned, vaguely unsatisfied. She poked at the flour sack as she kept giving him sideways looks.

“Why is Mrs. Paulson trying to give you a colt? Callie won’t be old enough to ride for a couple more years. She didn’t have enough money to pay for your help, did she?” Morgan asked, his smile fading back to seriousness. Reid shook his head no.

“Miss Ruth is in desperate straits. Her funds are running out fast. Hope you don’t mind if I give her some of the proceeds from last night’s winnings.”

“I don’t mind,” Morgan shrugged.

“She may have to sell more of the horses soon. Mr. Paulson has been missing a couple months now. Haven’t seen him since April, ever since he had an argument with Captain Foyet about a stream Foyet has been diverting from the Paulsons’ ranch onto his own property,” Reid murmured. “Mrs. Paulson has six kids to feed, and thirty horses on top of that. They’ve got a handsome house with a lot of land, and Foyet is surely eyeing that property very closely.”

“You think the Captain has done Mr. Paulson in?” Hotch asked, keenly aware that Callie was watching their exchange very closely.

“Marshal, I’m not accusing anyone of anything, but I’m telling you, there ain’t no way Frank Paulson picked up and walked away from his wife and children, not when he had four expectant horses and a mortgage coming due in September. I was looking around for signs of Mr. Paulson when I stumbled across you and Old George. It has me wondering if we shouldn’t be taking a closer look around Misery Trail while he is otherwise occupied,” the doctor thought out loud to Hotch.

“What does Mrs. Paulson think?” the Marshal asked.

“She’s afraid Frank took the mortgage money and ran off with some young girl he met in Virginia City. But he wouldn’t have done that,” Doc denied.

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s got a wonderful woman at home. I know everything there is to know about the Paulsons’ personal history. That was all Mrs. Paulson talked about when I was there. Frank was a cattle hand, and Ruth was dancing for money when they met in Chicago. Ruth, she’s a good mother, and she can run that ranch with one hand behind her back. So what if it’s been ten years since she danced on a stage? So maybe she has gained a few pounds, giving Frank six children? She’s worried he doesn’t find her attractive like he used to, but that’s not true. None of that matters to Frank. When he looks at his wife, he’s got nothing but love in his eyes for her. There is no way on God’s green earth that he left Ruth for some half-grown, strange piece of tail he met in Virginia City. I don’t care how big that girl’s mammary glands were.”

“We could maybe take a ride over there and look,” Hotch agreed, glancing back and forth between Morgan and Doc.

“Are you that desperate to see this girl’s mammary glands?” Doc asked mischievously.

“To Misery Trail,” Hotch clarified. Doc snickered to himself.

“Doc hasn’t eaten breakfast yet,” Miss Penelope protested. Morgan was busy chewing on a biscuit stuffed with leftover chicken.

“I’ll take along a biscuit,” Reid replied.

“You sure as hell aren’t taking Baby Callie over to Misery Trail,” Miss Penelope told them flatly, opening her arms for Doc to give her the child back. “She is staying here with me and Sophie until you get back.”

“Do you want to stay and play dolls with Sophie?” Doc asked Callie. The child frowned and teared up instantly.

“But I want to go with yoooooooou,” Callie cried, her small voice increasing in volume considerably. Reid winced, both eyes closed. He popped one eye back open and frowned playfully at her, then opened the other eye again.

“Callie, when you’re old enough to shoot a gun, you can chase monsters with me. But until then, you are not allowed to join a posse. I’m sorry. Rules are rules, young lady. You have to be five at least. How old are you?”

“Threeeeeeee,” she howled unhappily. “Three and a haaaaaaaalf!”

“Then you are going have to wait another year and a half before you’re allowed to join a posse. Rules are rules. Crying is not going to change that. Hush that noise."

“Will you be back soon?” she worried, stuffing a hand against one eye and then the other. He brushed away her tears and nosed her cheek.

“Yes, I will be,” he promised.

“Are you going to chase tiny monsters, like the ones under your bed?” she asked.

“No, this monster is bigger than those ones were.” 

“Are you going to put the new monster in a jar?” 

“Wish I could,” he answered as he gave a half-smile.

“Sophie has monsters under her bed,” Callie sniffled. “They wake her up at night too. Can you help Sophie?”

“When we come back, I will chase away Sophie’s monsters too,” the doctor vowed solemnly. “Will you mind your manners, and behave for Miss Penny?”

“Yes,” Callie decided.

“You aren’t going to howl like a lonesome coyote when I leave, are you?”

“Nooooooo,” Callie denied.

Reid gave a small but earnest howl. Callie smiled, and joined him for a moment or two. She stopped when she felt Hotch watching her. Callie gave Hotch a shy look, then she ducked her head, hid her face in Doc’s hair, and hugged his neck tight. Doc was smiling. Morgan had to turn around and clear his throat, touch his eyes.

“My, you are getting soft,” Doc teased Morgan. 

“Dust,” Morgan insisted.

“I’ll save your pie for you,” Miss Penelope said, pushing the completed dessert into the oven and dusting off her hands.

She stared at the three men, and the concern was plain to see on her face. But she faked a smile for Callie’s sake as she took her out of Doc’s arms.

“We’ll be fine,” Doc promised. “Gimme sugar. You behave for Miss Penny.”

Callie popped a quick kiss to Doc’s cheek and pulled his hair. He pulled on her braided hair tenderly in reply.


	12. The Ride to Misery Trail

“So you have to be five to join a posse? Who decided that?” Hotch asked after a few minutes of peace and quiet and blowing wind. He was beginning to understand why everyone in this area looked like they were made out of leather. It was from squinting through harsh winds filled with abrasive sand and blasting heat.

“It’s a long story,” Doc said. “Would you excuse us for a moment?” he asked, moving his mare up to have a private conversation with Morgan. Hotch had to strain to hear what they were saying. “For God’s sake, Morgan, would you be careful what you tell Callie?”

“That girl is smart, Doc. She is going to figure it all out.”

“I’m hoping by the time Callie puts two and two together, that she and Miss Emily will be such good friends that the blood ties will be redundant. If we’re lucky, it’ll be more than enough that they are friends. This has gotta be handled carefully, and not only on Callie’s end. You know that. You and Miss Emily are right close.”

“Yes we are,” Morgan sighed.

“You should be more sensitive of Miss Emily’s feelings then. Like I said before, she’s got some stuff in one room, and she’s got some stuff in another room, and you don’t want her mixing those two rooms up, because if she goes in the wrong room, and she remembers what she put away in there, she’s going to run again to get away from the memories. Who knows where the hell she’ll take off to? You don’t want that, do you?” 

“No,” Morgan whined.

“She doesn’t remember what happened to her, and I don’t want her remembering either. Because if she remembers what that man in St. Louis did to her, she’s bound to remember what she did to him, and that is not gonna be pretty. She’ll be full of guilt and fear, and she’ll think she has to run again to get away from the law, and she will run, believe me, I know she will. She will run as far away as she can get.”

“All right. I hear you,” Morgan muttered.

“God, Morgan, I’m so scared of what will happen.” 

“All right. All right,” Morgan said, his voice rising. 

“Sorry. I don’t mean to harp.”

“It’s all right,” Morgan repeated, latching a hand onto Doc’s shoulder and squeezing. “You know, for someone who keeps insisting he’s not in love with a woman, you sure are mighty protective of the Countess.”

“There are days I wish I could be in love with her. She’s a good person.”

“Yes, she is,” Morgan agreed.

“You can love someone with all your heart, and not be in love with them romantically.”

“Oh, can you? Give me one example.”

“I love you,” Doc smiled at Morgan, flashing those magnificent lashes at him. Morgan frowned back at Doc.

“Better not be romantically,” his friend grumbled as he reached over again, popping Doc in the back of his head, making his hat tilt forward into his eyes. Reid snickered softly and pushed his hat into its rightful place.

“How long are you going to wait before you teach Callie to shoot a gun?” Aaron wondered, clearing his throat, hoping to get Doc’s attention again. He pretended he had not been listening closely to their every word, but he wasn’t sure if Doc believed the pretense of not.

“About another year, tops,” Doc replied. “I have the perfect gun for her and everything. Small, light-weight….”

Hotch shivered. Doc was kidding, wasn’t he?

“Why does Callie think you can put monsters in a jar?” Hotch asked.

“We found two scorpions in the barn once. I put them in a mason jar to suffocate them,” Reid explained around a mouth full of biscuit and chicken. “I was worried they would multiply if I let them go. I was also worried Callie would let them out if I didn’t hide the jar.”

“Where’d you hide the jar?”

“Under my bed. How’s that horse treating you? His name is Bicuspid, by the way.”

“Bicuspid?” Hotch wondered. “That’s a strange name for a horse.”

“I figure Mrs. Strauss had a good reason for naming him that.”

“Who is Mrs. Strauss?”

“She and Mr. Strauss own the saddlery and stables. German immigrants. They get most of their horses from the Paulsons or the Walkers, well, Foyet now. That’s where I got Maggie, from the Strausses. Mr. Strauss handles the business, and Mrs. Strauss handles the horses, and she handles Mr. Strauss about like she handles the horses, so I would not want that woman cross at me, no, no, no, no, no. Like I said, I’m sure she had a good reason for naming him Bicuspid, so I would not put your leg, or any other part of your anatomy, near to that animal’s mouth if I was you, Marshal,” Doc cautioned.

“You don’t spend a lot of time on horses, do you, Marshal?” Morgan observed.

“I ride horses all the time,” Hotch defended. “Not well, but I do ride them. I prefer the train, for obvious reasons.”

“Because the train isn’t going to buck your ass off if you make it mad,” Morgan laughed.

“He doesn’t know his other horse’s name,” Doc whispered to Morgan, glancing down at his chest and brushing biscuit crumbs off his clothes.

“That stallion I found wandering the desert?” Morgan whispered back.

“Yeah. He never bothered to ask the horse his name,” Doc said.

“Well, that’s just rude,” Morgan grunted disapprovingly. 

“That’s what I thought,” Doc agreed. “Him and Bicuspid seem to be having a disagreement about who’s in charge,” Doc added with a wry smile, watching Hotch fuss with the reins and give them another stern tug. The coal black steed complained loudly, stopping to stamp his feet into the ground.

“He is damned stubborn,” Hotch replied, giving Bicuspid another a nudge in the left side. The beast turned his head sideways and nipped in Aaron’s general direction. Hotch jerked out of reach, and dragged on the reins to the right. Bicuspid turned all the way around in the circle to the right. The other two horses stopped and watched the display with bland amusement.

“You wanna trade? Maggie’s very docile,” Reid offered, stroking the ears of his exceptionally-mellow mare. Hotch frowned at the suggestion as he eyed Doc’s dubious mount.

Maggie was a dappled gray horse with a white and gray mane, and she had seen better days. Her rump was covered with healed whip marks, and she was wearing a patch over one eye. Knowing Doc would be the last person to be cruel to an animal, or to take a whip to anyone, Hotch wondered who had mistreated Maggie. Was there anybody in Doc’s life that he hadn’t picked up, dusted off, befriended, healed, and set back on their feet? The thin man shifted around on the Mexican blanket over Maggie’s bony spine. Wasn’t she comfortable wearing a saddle, Hotch wondered? Or was it that Doc preferred to ride bareback?

Doc felt Hotch watching him, and he shyly met his eyes.

“She’s got a wonderful disposition.” Doc did his best to entice Hotch. Reid’s mount lifted her head and shook out her mane as if she was disagreeing with him. If a horse could be said to give someone a dirty look, then it was happening to Hotch right that moment. Maggie had a wonderful disposition when it came to Doc only, Hotch decided. Reid nudged her ribs and moved towards the Marshal.

“Spencer Reid, I bet you’d marry Maggie if the law would allow it,” Morgan teased.

“I might at that,” Doc agreed amiably. “She is the sweetest female of any species I have ever met. But she and your Hal have an arrangement, and I am not the sort of man who would come between two souls in love,” he mused.

Morgan’s chestnut horse was a beautiful animal indeed, with a compact build, powerful legs, and a high head with alert eyes. Callie had been right – Doc and Hal did have the same color hair. Morgan and Hal moved together like one beast with two brains, both in agreement, both in concert. There was no argument going on over there, not like the bad blood brewing between Hotch and Bicuspid. Aaron was full of envy at how well Morgan rode his horse. Morgan was a very expert horseman.

“The secret to getting along with any creature is compromise. Maggie doesn’t mind where you want to go as long as you aren’t in a big-ass hurry, and that suits me fine. Bicuspid there is in a big-ass hurry, but the Marshal keeps jerking him back, holding him in, and it’s making him downright testy,” Reid was saying.

“Don’t worry. He’s gonna get the picture soon enough,” Aaron refused.

“Can I suggest you loosen up on that rein before you choke him?” Doc fussed. Hotch ignored the suggestion, of course.

“What would you know about riding? Your horse doesn’t even have a saddle,” Hotch complained.

“I don’t like saddles,” Doc answered. “They can be dangerous, and they chaff my skinny butt something terrible.”

“You could ride side-saddle,” Morgan teased playfully.

“Fuck you,” Doc retorted in a brotherly tone. Morgan laughed out loud and whispered something back that made Doc gasp and then cackle. The comment had contained the words ‘pommel’ and 'distracting', but Hotch wasn’t sure what the rest of it was. “Fuck you twice, you bastard,” Doc retorted, laughing in spite of his embarrassment. Morgan howled to himself with amusement.

Reid patted Maggie’s left rump, and his horse walked to stand side by side with Bicuspid. Doc reached over, and touched Hotch’s hands. He slowly and gracefully climbed onto the saddle in front of Hotch, then shifted his hips to make more room for himself. Hotch moved further back, letting go of the reins and giving them to Doc.

The Marshal wasn’t sure for a moment where to put his hands. On Doc’s shoulders? On his hips? Around his waist? Morgan was fighting a losing battle with laughter, watching Hotch and Doc together. Hotch wondered what emotions were displayed on his face. He masked himself behind a stoic frown. He finally decided he needed to grab something before he fell off, so he set his hands on Doc’s hips, and nervously watched over the young man’s shoulder.

“It seemed like a good idea to you, hiding scorpions under your bed?” Hotch continued the previous conversation as Doc experimented with Bicuspid’s reins, giving them a looser and looser grip.

“I pace around when I can’t sleep. I told Callie when she hears me get up, it’s because the monsters under my bed are making noise, so she tends to stay pretty clear of that bed and what’s underneath it.”

“What would you have done if those scorpions had gotten loose in the house?” Hotch asked.

“Last time I checked, Marshal, scorpions lack the opposable thumbs necessary to open a mason jar, particularly from the inside.”

“Did they die?”

“No, they didn’t. All I could think about that night was how horrible it must be for them to be suffocating in that glass jar. So I took the jar outside, and walked the scorpions over the next hill. Found them a rocky place to hide. Knelt down. Undid that lid like I was setting a land mine.”

Doc made a face as he demonstrated holding a jar and cringing back from it. Morgan shook noiselessly. Hotch smiled faintly too.

“I made myself scarce as fast as possible, hoping they weren’t the sort to hold a grudge, and hoping they had a terrible sense of direction so they wouldn’t find their way back to the barn. Scorpion venom can be deadly to human beings, especially children,” Reid concluded.

“What monsters would Sophie have under her bed?” Hotch wondered. Morgan stared hard to Reid, as if willing him to keep to keep his mouth shut, but Doc missed the glance, and continued to babble.

“I don’t imagine they’re the kind that will fit in a jar,” the doctor replied. “Here. Like this. He likes a loose grip. Like this. Just like this. No. Like this. Nice and light. Light. Lighter. Lighter. Much lighter. Marshal. Lighter. There. Perfect.”

Hotch took the reins again, holding them with one thumb and one finger, as Doc demonstrated.

“Sophie’s mother Jeanne came out this way from Kansas last year, looking for a trace of her husband, and for some stupid reason, she dragged Sophie along. The husband, he was part of the mining camp for a couple years, but they hadn’t had any letters or money from him in some time. Nobody knew what had become of him, nor could remember the last time they saw him. It was like he vanished off the face of the Earth. Jeanne took gravely ill at the news that he had disappeared. She wasted away and died in the space of about a week, left poor Sophie on her own,” Reid rambled quietly.

“That must have been hard for the girl,” Hotch said, peering over Reid’s shoulder and nestling their hips closer together. Doc was busy talking, and he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get out of Hotch’s lap. That suited Hotch pretty well. He was enjoying having his arms around the thin man, breathing in the scent of him, getting to brush accidently/purposefully against that sandy hair and that stubble-covered cheek.

“We’ve been writing to her aunt Josey who lives in Topeka, and the aunt keeps saying she’ll send for Sophie soon. She never does send for her though. We stopped telling Sophie when her aunt writes, because it’s always one excuse or another why not this month, not this month. It all leaves me wondering if there isn’t a reason at home there that made Jeanne bring Sophie along in the first place, and that same reason is the reason that Sophie’s aunt Josey isn’t sending to bring her back to Kansas.”

“Bad blood between the sisters?”

“Or Josey loves her too much to bring her back there. Maybe she figures the girl is better off away from there. Maybe she’s got a husband who won’t keep his hands off little girls. Maybe she’s got twenty children of her own she can’t feed, and as much as she might want to, she can’t afford another one. Hell, I don’t know. It’s all speculation on my part, but I do find it damned odd that Josey would not send for her sister’s orphaned child. It don’t seem right to me.”

“I agree. It’s odd,” Hotch nodded.

“Anyway, I offered to let Sophie stay with us, because Callie is very smitten with the idea of having a sister to play with, but Miss Penelope said that it wouldn’t be very proper, two men with a house full of young girls. I guess she’s right. People might talk, think the worst of me and Morgan.” 

“They think some pretty ugly things already as it is,” Morgan muttered. “All thanks to Miss Jennifer and her gum-flapping.”

“Nothing short of me climbing into bed with Miss Jennifer, and proving her intrusive suppositions about my anatomy and virility wrong is going to cure any of that gossiping, and let me tell you, buddy, that is not going to happen in this lifetime, so there,” Doc answered. Morgan nodded in agreement. “Anyway, Sophie is very happy with Miss Penelope, and I think Miss Penelope likes having someone to fuss over.”

“You seem to make a habit of fixing situations for people in trouble. Is that what you do when you’re bored – you chase away monsters?” Hotch teased.

“Maybe I’m making up for misdeeds I regret. We have a limited amount of time in this world, Marshal. Can you think of any better way to spend that time than helping people?” Reid told Hotch in a tone that quieted the Marshal very quickly.

Doc whistled between his teeth, and Maggie moved up to Bicuspid’s side again. Reid slipped easily from Hotch’s horse onto the mare’s back. He nestled into his comfortable spot again, and petted Maggie’s mane.

“Someone’s been this way recently,” Morgan murmured, eyes on the sandy soil below them. Hotch and Reid let go of their discussion in order to follow the tracks that Morgan pointed out.

“Do you recognize the shoes?” Reid asked Morgan. 

“Not sure. I need a closer look.” Reid rooted around in his satchel and withdrew a thin pair of glasses. He slid down from his horse and put the glasses on, taking a closer look at the ground. “If I’m not mistaken, those are from Mr. Rossi’s stallion,” he reported.

“When was the last time you were mistaken?” 

Reid squinted at the sky for a long pause. “1864,” he replied.

“What’s Mr. Rossi doing out this way?” Morgan asked.

“Damn good question,” Reid said, gracefully pulling himself back up onto Maggie. He felt Hotch’s eyes on him, and remembered the glasses. He pulled them off and tucked them away in his shirt pocket.

“He’s got some peculiar habits for a store keeper,” Morgan commented. Reid sent a quick glance at Hotch before he answered.

“I suspect keeping a store is not Mr. Rossi’s primary reason for being around these parts,” Doc murmured, dropping his voice and nudging his mare to go around Hotch, around Morgan, and into the lead ahead of them both. He put his glasses back on and kept his eyes on the ground.

“What do you think he’s up to?” Morgan wanted to know.

“Having had several chances to see his books, I can tell you that Mr. Rossi keeps track of inventory by each customer’s buying habits,” Reid replied. Hotch watched the young man carefully. What was he getting at? “Mr. Rossi knows what you buy, how often you buy it, what kind of money you use, but he hasn’t got the first idea when and what he ought to be ordering to keep the store stocked.”

“That’s right odd,” Morgan remarked, tipping his hat up and staring ahead towards the rocky hills they were approaching fast. Misery Trail beckoned with its rocks and trees and the promise of water, but those who knew the area understood the danger of bandits and outlaws lurking in the shadows. It did not bode well that there were several buzzards circling lazily on the thermals above the small hills and deep hidden canyon.

“Mr. Rossi has had a vast amount of experience in surveillance. He’s got a great mind for details,” Reid chuckled, turning around and studying Hotch from under those beautiful lashes. “If I had to guess, I would say he’s a federal marshal like Mr. Hotchner is, or he might be a Pinkerton, which would explain why he hasn’t revealed himself to the Marshal as a marshal.”

“You think Mr. Rossi is a Pinkerton?” Morgan wondered. “What would bring a private detective out to this god-forsaken corner of the world? Could he be tailing Captain Foyet too?” Hotch gasped and tensed up with anger, suddenly feeling very territorial about his case and his subject.

“It is possible,” Reid nodded as he turned back around. “They did arrive here at nearly the same time, seven months ago.”

“Maybe Mr. Rossi is here for recruitment purposes.” Morgan lit up with the thought and centered his gaze on Reid’s back. Doc gasped at the statement. “You worked with Mr. Pinkerton during the War, didn’t you?” Morgan went on. “Maybe he wants you back, but he isn’t sure how to approach you with the proposal.”

Hotch’s eyes went wide with that bit of news. So Doctor Reid had been a spy during the War after all? Reid whirled on Morgan and glared hard at him. He was not happy Morgan had blurted that out. His displeasure was all over his suddenly-sour face.

“Yes, I did work for that bastard Pinkerton during the War. I was one of his best field assets, and he left me to rot in enemy hands for almost a year. You know what his first words were to me when I saw him again? ‘I felt right bad about what happened to you, son.’ I damned near shot him on the spot. Really? He felt bad for what happened to me? Well, that makes it all better. Goddamn son of a bitch.”

“So, you would not be very receptive to his recruitment efforts?” Hotch asked.

“Receptive?! I’m gonna shoot, stuff, and mount Mr. Rossi if he so much as asks!” Reid hollered, giving Maggie a nudge. She picked up her pace on command.

“Touchy subject. Sorry,” Morgan said, but Reid was too far ahead to have heard. Morgan hung his head between his shoulders, shaking it back and forth as he muttered to himself. “I should have kept my mouth shut. Should have known better that to say that.”


	13. Doc Ain't No Angel

Morgan fell into silence as Reid pounded away in a cloud of dust. Hotch slowed Bicuspid down and waited for Morgan and Hal to be trotting side by side with them. Ahead of them, Maggie had run out of steam. Doc was lying down against her neck, and he appeared to be whispering something to her. Maybe he was apologizing for making her run. He straightened up again, and let Maggie go at a leisurely pace once more.

“He can be downright crotchety if you bring up the wrong topic,” Hotch commented after a respectful silence.

“We better not let him get too far ahead,” Morgan answered, nudging his horse Hal to a trot. Hotch followed suit. “Doc is slow to burn, but when he goes off, you need to stand back and give him room to vent, like a geyser,” Morgan continued.

“You have been keeping an eye on him for a while, haven’t you?”

“Are you asking where we met?” Morgan wondered. “You do spend a lot of time asking people all kinds of nosy questions.”

“Knowing about the people around me helps me do my job,” the Marshal responded. “My guess is that you met Doc during the War.”

“You would be wrong. Don’t guess. Ask me directly what you want to know. It’ll go faster, and your information will be more accurate.”

“Mr. Morgan, where did you meet Doctor Reid?”

“It was in Georgia, and it was after the War. I was checking up on my cousins out of Atlanta. I had been sleeping by day, traveling mostly by night. One night, I was creeping along, and I walked right into the business end of a gun. The man holding that Smith & Wesson was about as thin as the barrel was. He scared the living daylights out of me. I thought he was a vengeful spirit because he was so goddamn quiet. Suppose I scared him pretty hard too though.”

“You were walking alone through Georgia?” Hotch goggled at Morgan.

“I promised my mother and my aunt that I would check on my cousins. My father – he had walked all the way from Georgia to Illinois forty years before to gain his freedom. He was twelve at the time. He carried his baby sister the entire way. She wasn’t any bigger than Callie is now. Can you imagine being a twelve year old, walking all that way, carrying your baby sister with you? Do you know what kind of courage that took? How scared he must have been? How much he loved his sister to have taken her with him when he ran away?”

“That took more courage than most grown men have,” Hotch nodded.

“After all my father sacrificed to give me a better life, the least I could do was walk back and check on the rest of the family he had had to leave behind.”

“Why didn’t Doc shoot you that night when you ran into each other?”

“He realized I wasn’t going to hurt him, and I realized that traveling with someone was going to keep both of us safer.” 

“Where was he headed?”

“Back to Virginia, following the maps in his head.” 

“He’s got maps in his head?”

“Marshal, we used to sit on the ground every evening before we started to walk. He’d pull out this book from his satchel, and he would turn to a blank page. He would draw a map of where we were, the landmarks we were going to find that night, where the water was, where the towns were. I watched him do that every evening, and I saw how accurate his maps were as we journeyed along. He was drawing them from what he had in his head. That is some gift he has.”

“That it is,” the Marshal agreed.

“Every morning when we’d stop, he’d turn to another blank page, and he’d make notes about what we saw, who we saw, if the train tracks were intact, if there were boats on the rivers, if supplies were being shipped, were the houses intact or had they been burned, if there were people, families, slaves, soldiers, how many of each we encountered or hid from until they were out of sight past the horizon. He made notes about what crops we had gone through, whether they were growing, had they been harvested, or had they been trampled by an army marching through. It was unreal, Marshal, the kinds of information he was drawing in every day. It was amazing.”

“Did you ever find your cousins?”

“They were dead or gone, all of them. Never found any trace.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I was so ashamed. I felt like I had let my father down. There wasn’t any way I could go back to Chicago and tell my family that everyone in Georgia was dead or vanished. It would have broken my auntie’s heart, because after my father died, all the blood family she had left was down in Atlanta. My mother would have been devastated too, because she had shared the guilt my father felt, having to leave so many people behind when he ran. So I wrote back home that I hadn’t found anything but that I would keep on looking.”

“In the meantime, you decided you were going to stay by Doc’s side, at least until you got him safely back to Virginia?”

“I can’t explain it, except to say that he wasn’t in any shape to be left on his own,” Morgan commented. “He told me he was twenty, but he didn’t look a day over fifteen. He was scrawny to start with, but he was practically starved away to nothing when I found him. He didn’t hardly speak, and when he did, it wasn’t above a whisper. He hardly slept more than an hour or two at a time. Don’t know where he got that gun or that satchel from – I never asked. Though once we got back to his parents’ home in Alexandria, he did mail a first-edition, leather bound, pristine copy of Edmund Spenser’s ‘Faerie Queene’ to Mrs. Barbara McFergus in Atlanta, Georgia.”

“She must have helped him out,” Hotch speculated.

“I reckon she must have, for him to send her something so precious as that,” Morgan nodded. “I knew Doc’s mind was working even when his mouth wasn’t. He was focused on the journey ahead, and that’s the only thing that kept him from going completely insane. I felt like God had put me where I was because that boy was in desperate need of help.”

“He’s lucky to have you,” Hotch murmured, wishing his tone didn’t sound as jealous as it did. 

“I noticed what you noticed too.” 

“What’s that?”

“Doc and his need to help people. I understand why he does it, helping and healing everyone around him. It’s because seeing people in pain, it reminds him of when he was alone, and in pain, and he can’t bear the idea of seeing someone else hurting the way he was hurting. No one helped Doc when he was in that hellish prison, except that Hankel boy, and look what that got Tobias – a bullet through the heart. Every time Doc heals someone else, he’s helping himself feel better as much as he’s helping them,” Morgan said.

“That does make sense, when you put it that way,” Hotch agreed. “But he said he was making up for misdeeds that he regrets.”

“Well, Doc ain’t no angel, that’s for sure,” Morgan answered, lifting his hat and rubbing his scalp, then putting his hat back in place. “He’s not fragile either. I don’t want you thinking I have to carry the man around on a pillow and never let his feet touch the ground. He’s strong, and he’s stubborn, and he’s willful, and he’s brilliant, and what's worse, he knows he's brilliant.”

“As protective as you are of him, that leads me to believe you’ve seen him in a state where he needed protecting. Even when you look at him now, that’s the man you see— starved, frightened, and alone,” Hotch observed.

Morgan admitted, “He was in a sorry way when I first laid eyes on him. That’s the truth of it. But it’s not all one-sided protection on my part. You don’t know how many times Doc has managed to be in the right place and the right time to save my life too. This country is filled with people that would just as soon shoot me as look at me, and they don’t all live south of the Mason-Dixon line. Doc has always got my back, no questions asked. Like that time we were in New Orleans?”

“Why would you go to New Orleans to get to Virginia?” Hotch asked.

“This was a couple years later, not during the first journey back to Virginia. Doc’s father wanted to put him away in the same asylum where he locked Doc’s mother up, so we had no choice but to make haste away from Virginia. What to do with ourselves then? We decided we’d travel for a while, having ourselves some adventures until we got tired of it. It took Doc’s mind off the nightmares and the scars. We were down there in New Orleans—I guess it was in ’67. It was around the time we learned Doc’s mother had died in the asylum of a brain fever. He took that very hard, as you can imagine. Her being gone, that left him drifting emotionally. Anyhow, we were in New Orleans, and some Voodoo lord got it in his head he was going to steal my soul, and make me a zombie. He had his other zombies knock me in the head, and drag me to the cemetery. Chained me up to this crypt. He was doing these spells over the top of me. I would have died that night if Doc hadn’t come to my rescue.”

“How did Doc stop the Voodoo lord?”

“I’m not going to spoil that story. Truth is, I have no idea how he did what he did. You need to ask him to tell it to you sometime. He made that Voodoo lord believe in real magic,” Morgan smiled. “I will never forget what a frightening figure Doc cut, standing there in the darkness on top of those crypts, like one of the statues come to life. The wind was whipping around him. He was hissing words in foreign tongues. Lightning was going off overhead, and mist and fog was rolling all around. First it began to rain, large drops, heavy drops, and then, plop, plop, plop, ribbit, ribbit.”

Hotch stared at Morgan and narrowed his eyes, not understanding.

“It rained frogs, Marshal. I have never seen such a thing in all my life,” Morgan said.

Hotch squinted skeptically. “Doc made it rain frogs?”

“Yes, he did,” Morgan assured the Marshal. “I have no idea how.”

“Bullshit,” Hotch muttered.

“No, sir! I swear to God. Frogs were falling from the sky. You have never seen men run so fast in all your life. The Voodoo lord and his zombies, they fled like rabbits. Doc hurried over and picked the lock holding my chains. We sat on that crypt for five minutes before the frogs stopped falling. We stepped carefully around them on the way out of the boneyard. They were all in a daze. Creepiest thing I ever saw in my life.”

“Why were you even down in New Orleans?” Hotch asked. He wasn’t ready to accept the notion that Doc could forecast the weather, let alone make it rain amphibians.

“Doc had a score to settle with someone who had betrayed him.”

“He did mention someone named Ethan, in passing. Didn’t say a lot about him. Whatever happened to Ethan?” Hotch worried. 

Morgan’s mouth twitched, then twisted up. “Mr. Ethan,” Morgan said morosely. “Mm, mm, mm. Nope. I am not telling you that story. It will make you think ill of Doc.”

“Why do you say that?” Hotch wondered. Morgan screwed up his features again, and he began choosing his words with great care.

“You gotta remember what Mr. Ethan put Doc through when he betrayed him to those authorities. Doc is a better man than he used to be, but back then, he was in a bad place. His mother’s death impacted him very hard. He was bent on finding a way to make Mr. Ethan pay for what he had done, because that betrayal had caused all the heartache that followed afterwards.”

“Extortion?” Hotch wondered.

“Doc wasn’t after money,” Morgan refuted. 

“Then what was he after?”

“Satisfaction.”

“So he went to New Orleans to challenge Ethan to a duel?” 

“No, but he ruined him quite completely.”

“Ruined him how?”

“I’ve seen the way you watch Doc, Marshal.” 

“I…”

“I’ve also seen the way he watches you.” 

“Oh.”

“Forgive me for being so blunt. I’m only telling you this because you should know that Mr. Ethan and Doc, there was a brotherly bond between them. Don’t know if it was more than brotherly. I’ve never asked because that’s Doc’s private business. I’m not pressing you for a direct answer about your intentions towards Doc, because that’s your private business. Don’t worry. I’m not judging. If you can make Doc happy, then I’ll be the first man to shake your hand. I honestly will. He could use some happiness, and to be honest, he could use some simple physical affection too, if you get my drift. Miss Emily scared the living daylights out of his a couple years ago, and aside from being mauled by Miss Archer under the mistletoe, and that blue-stocking gal from San Antonio who went about as far anyone I’ve ever seen without getting her ass arrested. I really shouldn’t be telling you about that either, I guess. Wipe that from your mind. What I’m saying is, Doc….”

“Not sure you should be telling me any of this,” Hotch protested, not sure how to respond.

“Let me tell you this much. You aren’t the first person to look at Doc like he’s a ripe peach, like you can’t wait to pluck him off the tree and take a bite, let all those juices run down your chin. Maybe he is like that on the outside – delicate and easy to bruise, so inviting that you can’t wait to take a taste. God knows over the years, I have had to beat back some very anxious womenfolk. Couple a menfolk too. Miss San Antonio slipped a couple drops of special elixir into his drink at a saloon, and if I hadn’t been there to carry him out of that place, Doc would have woken up married in Texas, I’m sure of that. That's why they call it wedlock. That golden ring might as well come with a ball and chain. Anyhow, problem is, Doc is damned pretty, and it has never been a blessing.”

“I imagine not,” Marshal agreed grimly.

“People think he’s playing hard to get, and they find the challenge exciting. Like Miss Archer. Doc is not playing hard to get. He’s playing ‘keep your goddamn hands to yourself unless I invite you to touch me’.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hotch managed a tiny smile.

“Well, in your case, I believe he has issued an invitation, so what I’m trying to do here is maybe give you a bit of helpful advice, because it’s a rocky path, and I don’t want you tripping on all the boulders.”

“I’m all ears.”

“The thing about peaches. You don’t want to forget there’s a stone inside, and it’s hard, and it’s gonna bust your teeth out if you bite down wrong.”

"Doc will bust my teeth out if I make him angry? Is that what he did to Ethan?”

“Oh no. He didn’t lay a finger on Mr. Ethan. He destroyed his friend’s position in New Orleans society, which was far more injurious than any physical harm would have been.”

“How did he do that?”

“No. I ain’t saying another word about Mr. Ethan. If Doc wants you to know about that, he’s going to have to tell you himself.”

“Where’s the harm in me knowing? How do you know it will make me think poorly of him?” Hotch pleaded.

“Mr. Ethan killed himself over what Doc did,” Morgan blurted. “Doc has never forgiven himself for causing his friend to commit suicide.”

Hotch waited, anxious, shifting in his saddle. “How’d he cause him to do that?”

“Doc went right for the soft spot – he traced Mr. Ethan’s genealogy.”

Morgan could read the disappointment in Hotch’s face. The Marshal sank down with a hint of disgust on his features.

“Oh, I get it. Doesn’t sound so bad to you, does it? Just wait and see,” Morgan kept on talking. He couldn’t help himself. "We spent months holed up in libraries all over New Orleans, digging through old church records, and census registries, and newspapers. We even hopped a boat and spent a couple weeks in Jamaica, looking up wedding notices there. That was fun. I liked Jamaica – wish sometimes we had stayed there. But we hopped another boat and come back to New Orleans. Then we spent another couple months traipsing around swamps and bayous till we found a former slave that Mr. Ethan’s family had once owned. Hazel was her name – Witch Hazel, to her friends. She and Doc, they hit it off like shit and stink,” Morgan mused.

Hotch chuckled. His anticipation was building again as Morgan continued.

“Tiny, shrunken, old woman she was by that point. Had to be in her seventies. Blind in one eye, couldn’t see out the other. Bent in half with a dowager’s hump. But she had a mind so sharp, so quick. They chattered like a couple of excited parakeets as I carried her out of that swamp, and back to New Orleans, right to Mr. Ethan’s house, not knowing that that shriveled-up twig of a woman, she was the wooden stake that Doc was about to drive right through Mr. Ethan’s prideful heart.”

“How was genealogy going to devastate Mr. Ethan?”

“Marshal, Miss Emily told me you hail from Virginia. Don’t pretend you’re at all ignorant of the value Southerners place on how white a man is.”

“No, I’m not,” Hotch admitted shamefully.

“Mr. Ethan, he was ever so proud of being French, and white, and rich, and powerful. His heritage was all he talked about from the moment he and Doc met. It used to amuse Doc, but it got real annoying fast. Doc knew it was Mr. Ethan’s Achilles heel though, and he used that to his advantage to take him down.”

“Doc is hardly underprivileged himself,” Hotch observed.

“Doc is from money on his mother’s side, but nobody gave them anything. They were self-made, and there isn’t any one of them that sat around and expected to be waited on hand and foot. His mother’s family, they arrived here in the United States of America as indentured servants in the late 1600’s. I say they, but it was one skinny girl who came here first and earned enough as a servant and barkeep to bring a kid brother over later. They clawed their way to prosperity. They have come a long way, but they don’t carry themselves like they’re better than everyone. They lived simply, and saved as much as they could for their kids and grandkids. That ransom money Mrs. Reid gave up for her only son? That money had been scraped together by hard work, by people who had slaved on their hands and knees since they got to this country, and they were proud of the fact they had worked for all that they had.”

“But Mr. Ethan wasn’t modest about his roots? He lorded himself over others?”

"Mr. Ethan just would not shut up about his high and mighty family. His grandfather had supposedly been a French sailor with blood ties to one of Napoleon’s generals, whom Miss Jenny, his grandmother, had met and married in Jamaica when she went there. Mr. Ethan and his family were very high on the ladder in New Orleans society circles.”

“Yeah?”

“Doc took everything away from Mr. Ethan by revealing that Mr. Ethan’s grandmother had had a liaison with one of her family’s mixed-race house slaves. Mr. Ethan’s mother, Miss Sara? She wasn’t the daughter of a French sailor with blood ties to General Massena. She was an illegitimate child of mixed race, which made Mr. Ethan mixed as well. Mixed on both sides as it turned out, because his daddy’s family was Spanish and Indian Creole with just enough white to make the lot of them tan instead of brown. The white folks in those parts think of being black and being Indian as about neck and neck. They look down on the Spanish even more. It doesn’t matter how much money your family has.”

“How did Doc prove any of these accusations? All Ethan had to say was that Doc was full of shit. Why did you go to the trouble of tracking down Hazel?”

“That’s the thing, Marshal. Doc had deduced that Mr. Royce, that was Mr. Ethan’s great-grandfather, he would never have sent Miss Jenny, his only daughter, alone to Jamaica. We discovered that Miss Hazel had gone to Jamaica with Miss Jenny. They were close in age, and on reasonably-friendly terms. As luck would have it, Miss Hazel had done a lot more than simply accompany Miss Jenny. She had actually helped her concoct that story about Jean-Pierre Massena. They had paid to print a wedding announcement in a paper in Jamaica, bought tiny pictures in lockets and everything. Miss Jenny even went to the lengths of getting a lock of hair from a young man, and carted that around in the picture locket, saying it was from Jean-Pierre. Then those two girls faked Jean-Pierre’s death by plucking lines from articles out of the newspaper about a French ship that went down in a hurricane. Hazel had even helped Miss Jenny give birth to Miss Sara. Miss Hazel had been an eye-witness to all the crucial events.”

“She’s lucky Mr. Royce didn’t kill her when they returned from Jamaica,” Hotch observed. Morgan gave quick nod.

“That evil old man? He killed one of his own sons in a duel! He tried three times to kill Hazel. First he shot her in the head. That’s how she lost the sight in one eye. But Miss Jenny nursed her through that, and she lived. Mr. Royce locked Hazel in her cabin and burned it to the ground, but Miss Hazel escaped through a trap in the floorboards, and wriggled out through the crawlspace.”

“God must have been watching over her,” Hotch whistled, shaking his head in horror.

“Shit, by that point, there wasn’t anyone on that plantation that would keep company with Miss Hazel because they were scared to death they were going to get caught in the crossfire. Miss Jenny was terrified her father was coming after her next. She took her baby, and she ran away from home, married a Creole boy from clear the hell on the other side of New Orleans, closer to Lake Charles, because she knew she had to get away from her daddy, and this boy’s family was well-positioned and could offer her and her baby protection. Miss Jenny wanted to take Miss Hazel with her. She had tried to sneak back onto the plantation and take Miss Hazel away, but Mr. Royce caught them and beat the hell out of Miss Jenny and Miss Hazel both. Once Miss Jenny escaped her father again, and got back to her new husband in Lake Charles, Miss Hazel knew her days were numbered. Sure enough. Mr. Royce broke into Hazel’s cabin when she was sleeping, tied her up, and dragged her crying and screaming away into the night. He tossed her alive into the bayou.”

“That son of a bitch,” Hotch swore.

“Word to the wise, Marshal. If you’re ever going to drown someone, make sure to throw them in the deep, not the shallows.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hotch agreed.

“Well, it was the dead of night, and pitch black out, and maybe Mr. Royce wasn’t able to see where he had thrown Hazel. He sure as hell didn’t wait to make sure she was dead, which I would also recommend, if you know what I mean. If you’re going to go to the trouble of killing someone in cold blood, see it through to the end. Don’t get all squeamish or impatient. Hang around and see that the job is done.”

“Sound advice,” Hotch murmured.

“Anyhow, Mr. Royce tossed Hazel in the bayou, got back on his horse, and took off. Miss Hazel said she was terrified for about a minute until she put her feet down to push herself back to the surface for a breath of air. That’s when she realized she could stand up. She managed to wriggle free of the ropes, and dragged herself out of the bayou. She walked all night to get back home, went straight up into the house, dripping stink and mud and water, still wearing a snake in her hair that she hadn’t even noticed, she was so shook up by the events. She climbed on top of Mr. Royce in his bed, wrapped her hands around his throat, and told that man if he laid one more goddamn hand on her, she was going to make his cock shrivel up and fall off. A man should take that kind of curse seriously from an angry woman he can’t kill.”

“Especially if she’s got a snake hanging out of her hair!” Hotch nodded emphatically.

“Mr. Royce, he gave Miss Hazel her life and her freedom if she would go away and never return. She fled back and holed up in the bayou with the gators and the frogs and the snakes. She felt safe there.”

“At least until you and Doc showed up? You must have had to promise her the moon and the stars to come back to New Orleans.”

“It had been more than fifty years since anyone around home in New Orleans had laid eyes on Miss Hazel. They had all thought she was dead that night Mr. Royce had dragged her away. He didn’t outlast her disappearance by more than six months. Miss Jenny’s new husband killed Mr. Royce in a duel over how he had mistreated Miss Jenny. Guess that was justice served. Miss Jenny was long dead too by the time we brought Miss Hazel back to New Orleans. Miss Sara, she had passed away the previous year. All we had to promise Miss Hazel was to see her safely to and fro, and to give her a little fun along the way. It was boring, living there by herself in the swamp with no one for company except the people who dared to seek her out for her potions and medicinal brews. We were lucky – damned lucky – that Miss Hazel knew all that she knew. As it turned out, we were even luckier than we could have guessed. That unfortunate house slave that Miss Jenny’s had laid with? He had been Hazel’s older brother, at least before Mr. Royce made him disappear. Nobody knows what happened to that young man. Bet it wasn’t pretty.” 

“Bet not,” Hotch agreed grimly.

“But there was more than a little resemblance between Hazel and her long-dead brother, and between Hazel and Miss Sara.”

“You’re kidding,” Hotch whispered.

“Doc had had an inkling there must be a reason that Mr. Royce had wanted Miss Hazel dead and gone, not only what she knew. It must have been how she looked too. That’s why we tracked down Witch Hazel, and brought her back to meet Mr. Ethan and all his high society friends. Doc had somehow figured out that Miss Hazel must have been related to Mr. Ethan. She was in fact his great-aunt, and Marshal, unlike her unfortunate brother who had been so-called ‘blessed’ with light skin, Miss Hazel, she was black as night. But she had the same green eyes that Miss Sara had had. You did not have to squint to see the resemblance between Mr. Ethan and Miss Hazel, and both of Mr. Ethan’s young daughters. Mr. Ethan had brown eyes and dark hair, and before the truth was known, was always said to favor the Mediterranean French in his blood. Once the truth was out though, there was no putting the genie back in the bottle.”

“So this family reunion must have caused quite a stir?” Hotch surmised.

“Like shooting a cannon ball into a square dance,” Morgan commented dryly. He tilted down and caught the Marshal’s eyes. “It makes you uncomfortable, talking about this topic with me?” he asked.

“More than a little. I’m surprised you would let Doc take that kind of tactic against Mr. Ethan, going after him over the color of his skin.”

“You don’t understand. It wasn’t about whether Mr. Ethan was white, or whether he was black, or how much of what he was. It was about hypocrisy, Marshal.”

“Didn’t it make you uncomfortable?” Hotch asked.

“Did what make me uncomfortable?” Morgan asked. “Mr. Ethan betrayed his best friend, saw him dragged away to be tortured and probably killed, and he didn’t raise a hand to help him. Doc made Mr. Ethan see that all he had believed in was a lie, and that all he had been fighting for was a lie as well. No, Marshal, no. It didn’t make me the least bit uncomfortable to help tear that man down. I’m sorry he killed himself. But I’m not sorry Doc forced Mr. Ethan to see the real truth.”

“Doc hit him where it hurt.”

“Doc obliterated the man without laying a finger on him. Mr. Ethan and his children were safe from slavery, which had obviously been outlawed by this point, but public  
opinion and plain, old-fashioned prejudice? That never goes out of style, does it?” Morgan murmured.

“No, it does not,” Hotch agreed.

“The same people who were kissing Mr. Ethan’s ass one day were throwing insults at him the next,” Morgan said. They were politely quiet for a few steps before Hotch felt compelled to ask.

“Mr. Ethan fought in the War?”

“Fought with distinction, so they said. Yes, he did."

“Then Mr. Ethan was fighting for a cause that could have put his own self in chains if anyone had known the truth about his family.”

“Yes, he was,” Morgan replied. “If he hadn't been light brown enough and didn't have straight hair. If he didn't have money and position and power. If the odds had been even, Marshal.”

“But he’s dead now?” Hotch asked.

“Yes. We left New Orleans to escort Witch Hazel back to her bayou like we had promised. I guess we were in Baton Rouge when we found out that Mr. Ethan had swallowed the barrel of his revolver after his wife Miss Libby filled her pockets with rocks and threw herself into Lake Pontchartrain.”

Hotch grew quiet with concern.

“How did Doc take that news?” Aaron asked.

“Marshal, I know Doc’s heart. I swear to you, he hadn’t wanted Mr. Ethan dead, nor Miss Libby either one, though she was a spiteful little bitch. She was so rude to Doc, rude like you would not believe. I’m guessing Mr. Ethan had a lot to do with that. Whatever he had told his wife about his friendship with Doc was fanning the flames on the hatred and jealousy in her heart. That’s what made her ask for Doc’s imprisonment as a wedding present.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She found out Mr. Ethan had invited Doc to their wedding, and she demanded Doc’s capture as a present, and Mr. Ethan bowed to that wish.” 

“But why?”

“Fact is, Miss Libby was a pretty girl, but she was not nearly as easy on the eyes as Doc is, and you did not have squint to see the resemblance between the two of them either. No. You. Did. Not. When Doc showed up to Mr. Ethan and Miss Libby’s wedding, everyone remarked right away how much Libby and Doc looked alike.”

“Oh…..” Hotch whistled. “Mr. Ethan couldn’t marry Doc, so he settled for Miss Libby?”

“That was the prevailing sentiment. Even years later, when Doc and I brought Miss Hazel to meet Mr. Ethan, people were still commenting on how much Doc and Libby looked alike. They kept asking me if Doc was Miss Libby’s cousin or brother or some such,” Morgan smiled faintly, shaking his head.

Hotch laughed softly. Morgan grew serious again.

“Anyhow, Doc took his friend’s death very hard. He spent a week puking up everything but his kidneys, and another week in bed, so heavy with regret that I feared he would take up his laudanum habit again and do himself in with an overdose. I watched him wallow in guilt and self-hatred about as long as I could stand it.”

Laudanum habit? Hotch had caught the words but filed them away for a future inquiry.

“He would have wasted away and died if I hadn’t done something. I dragged him out of bed, shook him by the shoulders, and told him what’s done is done. You can’t undo it. All you can do is ask for God’s forgiveness and spend the rest of your days making amends.”

“Did Doc listen to you?”

“In his own way. The first thing Doc did was go to church, and swear on his momma’s grave that he would never hurt anyone ever again,” Morgan said.

“Has he kept his promise?”

Morgan tipped up his hat skyward and pondered for a moment or two. “By and large,” he decided.

“Wonder what Doc would shake out of my family tree if I turned him loose? What did he mean about Lutheran obstinacy?”

“Whatever he would shake loose, it wouldn’t change his thoughts about you. That’s not the point, Marshal. Mr. Ethan’s betrayal ruined Doc’s life. Doc’s revenge on Mr. Ethan had nothing to do with race, and everything to do with striking where Mr. Ethan was most vulnerable, which was his pride in his heritage. It’s probably also fair to say that maybe some of Doc’s desire for revenge against Mr. Ethan was fueled by the hurt it caused him when Mr. Ethan married Libby, though Doc would never admit to that. He is as human as the next man though.”

“It would seem so,” Hotch nodded.

“Marshal, the moral to the story is this: Doc is not all sweet, soft peach. You hurt him, and he will hurt you back. You bite down wrong, you gonna find the hard stone at his core.”

“Well, thank you. That was very enlightening.”

“Hm,” Morgan snorted. “Enlightening? What do you mean by that?”

“Don’t worry. I will be very careful where I choose to bite Doc,” Hotch promised, hoping a small joking smile would put Morgan at ease. All the remark did was make Morgan’s brows rise.

“We need to catch up to Doc before he gets himself in trouble,” Morgan decided.

“Might be too late for that,” Hotch winced, staring towards the horizon.

“Doc, wait right there. Do not go inside. Doc? Goddamn it, Doc. Why don’t you ever listen to me?” Morgan muttered, urging Hal into a full gallop. Hotch had half a second to grab his own reins before Bicuspid took off after Hal, and passed him without breaking a sweat.


	14. Why Is Mr. Rossi in Boulder City?

The temperature inside the thin canyon called Misery Trail dropped probably twenty degrees from the desert around because of the shade provided by the rocks and the cooling effects of the water that trickled through as well. There were inviting pools and trickling waterfalls among the twisted walls, where bends in the curvature of the rock faces allowed shelves and nooks to be formed. It was beautiful from a distance, might have seemed like a paradise on Earth, but it was dangerous inside, because the twists and bends of the rock formations did not allow a rider to see what or who might be laying in wait around the next turn.

Morgan stared around at all the glimmering water, and gave Hal a gentle nudge in the ribs to get him moving after the horse had gotten himself a few slurps of water. Hotch was shivering, not just from the drop in temperature, but from being back in the place where only yesterday morning, George Foyet had tried to take his life. He glanced down at the horse prints which were headed out of the rocky soil and back into the sand of the desert. Had it only been twenty-four hours ago that Doc had saved him by tossing him on a horse and carrying him away from danger? Hotch stared at Hal and realized that Reid must have been riding Morgan’s horse yesterday, because Aaron had the bruise on his chest from the back of the saddle rubbing his ribs.

Looking around, Hotch decided that Reid had used those twists in the rocks to hide himself and take the necessary shots at Foyet in order to save the Marshal’s life. So Hotch was comforted by the idea that Doc had an idea of where he was able to hide himself in Misery Trail to have a look around without being seen.

Morgan came up straight in his saddle when he heard voices ahead. Hotch got down off his tempestuous mount, and let Bicuspid drink from the pool he had stopped beside. Morgan climbed down as well, and let Hal go stand by Hotch’s horse. Hotch and Morgan hurried ahead on silent feet with their guns drawn. Reid was carrying on an animated conversation with someone.

“So Morgan was right about you, you son of a bitch!”

“No need to make snap decisions, Doc. Put that gun away. We’re on the same side. Think about the offer. That’s all Mr. Pinkerton is asking you to do.”

“Damn you, Mr. Rossi. I ought to shoot you right between the eyes, and send you back to Pinkerton a piece at a time,” Reid growled. “You’ve been surveilling me the entire time you’ve been here?”

“Mr. Pinkerton wanted to make sure you hadn’t lost your edge.”

“So you’ve been testing me?”

“Feeling you out. If it’s any consolation, you passed every test with flying colors. Mr. Pinkerton could hardly contain his excitement. Doc? Put that away. Like I said, no need to make snap decisions. He’s offering you a lot of money to come back and work him again. Cool off some, and at least consider the offer.”

Hotch hurried ahead, but Morgan was close behind. They rounded the bend, and found that Reid had Rossi pinned down at gunpoint. The older man looked nervous but also amused, as if this wasn’t exactly how he had hoped things would turn out, but again that he wasn’t at all surprised to find himself in this kind of situation, all things considered.

Doc had interrupted Rossi digging several holes in the ground in a patch of earth about twenty feet by twenty feet, situated on a curved bank in the rocks. Silt and small rocks from the underground waterway obviously had been depositing themselves here for some time. There were pick-axes and shovels nearby, stashed on a ledge curving inside the rock wall.

“Doc, what’s the matter with you?” Morgan called out. Reid lowered his weapon and put it back in his holster, stomping around angrily in place between two holes.

“You were right. Pinkerton sent him to get me,” Reid grumbled.

“In that case, you should shoot him,” Morgan joked. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“Very funny,” Rossi interjected, picking up his shovel again and climbing back down in one of the holes. “I’m not here to ‘get’ anyone except Foyet, if I can manage it.”

“Like hell you will,” Hotch protested. He sloshed across the wide but shallow water and went to inspect one of the shallow holes.

“We can share in the take-down, Marshal. I’m not after glory. I had my fill of glory a long time ago. All I’m after is seeing George Foyet stopped,” Rossi explained.

“You taking up mining along with shop keeping?” Morgan asked.

“Sure, mining for dead folks,” Rossi replied, picking up a limb and waving a white and green hand at Morgan.

“Whoa!” Morgan dodged back from the decaying limb. Rossi set the hand back down into the grave.

“How many do you think are here?” Hotch asked solemnly as he moved closer to the agitated doctor, who continued to pace back and forth.

“I’m up to fifteen,” Rossi replied. “This is hard, slow work for an old man. You youngsters might consider grabbing a shovel and giving me a hand,” he added cantankerously. Morgan picked up a shovel, and Hotch moved to pick one up as well, but Reid put a hand on his arm.

“Give me the shovel, Marshal. Don’t tear your stitches. Miss Emily will have your hide and my hide both. Sit. Relax. Take notes. You got something to write on? Write with?” Doc asked.

Hotch fumbled, shrugged, and shook his head no, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You do know how to write?” Doc teased. Hotch frowned at him. Reid went to Maggie, and searched in his satchel, bringing back a small bound book wrapped with a piece of red ribbon. He opened the book, withdrew a thin, flat pencil, and gave the book to Hotch.

“You recognize anyone yet?” Morgan asked, covering his mouth and nose for a moment to block the smell. Hotch knelt slowly by the first hole. His nose was wrinkled back into his face with distaste.

“His victims run the spectrum,” Rossi commented. “Men, women, and children.”

Reid walked back and forth around the holes, pointing here and there, dragging his shovel in his other hand. His war experiences must have hardened him against the sight of dead bodies. Twisted, rotting corpses didn’t frighten him.

“That would be Miss Mina,” he remarked to Morgan, who came over to verify.

“Damned if it isn’t. I recognize her hair, and you can see the rope marks on her neck. But we buried her in town,” Morgan replied. “We attended her funeral.”

“Apparently the Captain wanted her here. He must have dug her up in the dead of night. Wonder how he managed to do that without Miss Jennifer finding out,” Reid thought out loud.

“Maybe we need to be questioning Miss Jennifer about what she knows,” Mr. Rossi agreed.

“Oh now, I’m the last person who would be defending that woman, but Miss Jennifer didn’t have any part of this,” Reid said, shaking his head. “She is observant though, and intrusively nosy. It would not hurt to ask her a few questions about what she might have seen. She could be very helpful indeed for the right price.”

“Who else do we have here?” Hotch asked.

“Mr. Meyerson. Mr. Fallingwell. Mrs. Fallingwell. Mr. Lipskind. Mr. Cleverly. The Reverend and Mrs. Trueheart. Their three boys. They were passing through on their way home to Omaha,” Reid called out, walking along.

“Are they keepsakes?” Hotch asked. He was sketching a diagram of the holes and their formations, and labeling each with the names that Reid called out. He held up the red ribbon. “Are they here to remind him of happy memories?” the Marshal asked, teasing the ribbon at Doc Reid.

Reid scowled at Hotch, walked over, and snatched the ribbon away from him.

“That belonged to my mother, smart ass,” Doc muttered as he curled the ribbon around his left hand and stuffed it into his pocket to hide it away.

“Sorry,” Hotch offered.

“Why don’t you mind your own business for a change, and quit asking everybody about everybody else’s business?” Doc growled, taking off his glasses and putting them back in his shirt pocket.

“Sorry,” Hotch curled away from that angry tone. Reid had stopped at another grave, his anger instantly pushed away again.

“You guess this might be Sophie’s daddy? He’s got her hair.”

“Could be,” Morgan agreed.

“I reckon we know all of them, except this man here,” Reid said, pausing by another open hole. He puzzled over the grave, and lifted his head. “Marshal, you were supposed to meet a man here, weren’t you? Another government man like yourself? You wouldn’t happen to have a description of him, would you?”

“John Henderson? He’s shoulder-high on me. Blond hair. Brown eyes.”

“Married or unmarried?” 

“Married, two kids.” 

“Questionable taste in boots?” Reid pointed quietly into the grave he was standing over, and Hotch hurried that direction. Aaron recognized the ugly green boots right away, and spotted the golden ring on Henderson’s ring finger. Hotch stood there, and quietly pulled off his hat as he gave a deep sigh.

“Captain Foyet must have sniffed Mr. Henderson out for what he was,” Reid decided, moving on.

“John, I’m sorry I got delayed,” Hotch whispered, shaking his head sadly before putting his hat back on. Doc jerked to a stop a few feet away, and buckled down to the ground.

“Mr. Paulson,” Doc announced, taking off his hat and rubbing the bridge of his nose between his eyes, as if he could feel his headache from this morning coming back on. “I was afraid he’d be here. At least I can assure Mrs. Paulson that her husband didn’t run off with that pretty, young redhead from Virginia City.”

“We need to catalogue all of them. Record their injuries. Notify their families. Cover them back up,” Rossi said.

“Cover them? You mean to leave them here?” Morgan gasped.

“He’s right. We can’t cart them away. Not yet. Not until we have Captain Foyet in custody,” Hotch agreed. 

“But…” Morgan protested.

“If the Captain returns, and his keepsakes aren’t where he left them, he’s going to be upset,” Hotch continued.

“You don’t want to see Old George lose his temper,” Reid said as he gave a quick shudder, staring away to the next bend in the rocks.

“There’s been no trace of Foyet since yesterday morning. With any luck, he struck off for Carson City or Flagstaff, or Phoenix, and bled to death before he got anywhere too far,” Morgan hoped. “With any luck, he’s feeding vultures out there in the desert.”

“I fear you’re being far too optimistic,” Reid replied. “Old George, he’s an expert when it comes to how to hurt, and how much a man can bleed, and how to keep the heart pumping when there’s nothing left but pain inside you.” 

“On other people,” Morgan said. “Not on himself.”

“Using his talents on himself would probably appeal to him more than we’d care to know. He’s not far away,” Reid replied, shivering again, his eyes transfixed on Mr. Paulson’s corpse. “I can feel him. I can almost smell him.”

There was something in Doc’s tone that made Morgan stand up and move to his friend’s side.

“Doc, let me take you home,” Morgan said, rubbing Reid’s shoulders very gently.

“I need to ride out to Mrs. Paulson’s. Tell her what happened,” Doc mumbled. “She deserves to know the truth.”

“No! We can’t tell anyone what we found here until we have Foyet in custody,” Hotch interjected. “What if they form a mob and hunt him down? They would tear him to pieces.”

“I don’t have a problem with that,” Doc replied, laughing unevenly. It was clear that his façade was beginning to slip off. The fear and hurt underneath was showing through in spite of his best efforts.

“Let me take you home,” Morgan said, helping his upset friend climb up on shaking legs. “Don’t worry. We’ll find him. All right? We’ll find him. Doc? Take a deep breath. Doc?”

“What if he knows I shot him? What if he figures this out? I should never have done it,” Reid babbled before he fell silent, eyes on the ground, his brain lost again in a distant memory. Hotch hurried over.

“Morgan, you would be more help to Mr. Rossi than I can be,” Hotch suggested. “I need to get back and get Anderson to wire for federal reinforcements. I can take care of Doc while you stay and help Mr. Rossi?”

“I need someone to stay,” Mr. Rossi insisted. “I don’t give a shit who.”

Morgan glanced back and forth between Hotch and Rossi, and back at Reid’s blank features. Doc’s stony expression was void of all color and emotion.

“You be careful with him,” Morgan muttered to the Marshal, turning around to pick up a shovel.

Hotch slid an arm around Doc, and walked him past the gaping holes, back through the shallow water, and towards the horses. He helped Doc onto the willful Bicuspid, and climbed up behind him, gently reaching around Doc to grab hold of the reins.


	15. Hotch Gathers A Posse

When Hotch burst through the door of the bank and telegraph office, a bell dinged, and the man behind the counter leapt up out of his seat in surprise, both hands in the air, his young face blanched white.

“DON’T SHOOT! TAKE WHATEVER YOU WANT!”

“Good Lord, Anderson, you are the jumpiest creature I have ever met,” the Countess sighed. “Relax, son. The Marshal isn’t going to shoot you. He doesn’t even have a gun drawn. He does seem to be in a helluva hurry though.”

She stood upright from where she had been leaning on the counter. She dusted off her dress, adjusted the top bone of her corset, and gave the agitated Marshal Hotchner a bland look.

“I need to wire for reinforcements! I need to get Foyet’s description out there,” Hotch breathed, holding his chest, wincing in pain.

“Has Foyet surfaced? What did you do to Doc?” Miss Emily worried, staring through the wide front window of the telegraph office. The young man was sitting on Bicuspid, having a two-party conversation with himself. The Countess gave Hotch a hostile poke with her sharp eyes, and headed outside.

Hotch had to negotiate with Anderson about who to wire and what to say, and he had to show the nervous clerk his badge three times before the young man was convinced he was what and who his credentials said he was. By that time, the Countess had pulled Doc down from the saddle. He had finally stopped talking to himself. She was standing with him beside the unruly mount, who didn’t look happy to be where he was.

“Miss Penelope told me you lot were headed out to Misery Trail. Did you run into the Captain? Everything all right, Doc?” she asked, rubbing his arm soothingly. Reid stared quietly at the ground and whispered to her.

“I shouldn’t have done what I did. Old George is gonna be mad at me. He’s gonna kill me. I know he will. I broke my promise. I shouldn’t have broken my promise. He’s gonna kill me. He’s gonna kill me.”

“We have to go,” Hotch said, pushing Reid back up onto the horse.

“I’m coming with you,” the Countess decided. 

“You got a mount?”

“What kind of idiot would saddle up a horse to cross the street?” Miss Emily retorted. “Hold on. Where do you think you’re taking Doc? What happened out there?” she demanded, holding Bicuspid’s bridle and keeping a firm grip on the animal.

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Hotch bluffed. The Countess gave Hotch a stern look, and the Marshal was on the verge of losing his patience. “He’s had a little scare – that’s all. I’m taking him home,” Aaron added.

“I’ll meet you there. I know my way,” Miss Emily said, letting go of Bicuspid and watching the Marshal whip the steed around and take off in the wrong direction. She rubbed her forehead and smirked at his arrogance. Doc brought Bicuspid to a halt halfway down the street. Reid and Hotch had a brief and quiet exchange of words. Doc turned Bicuspid around, and let Hotch have the reins again.

The Countess was quick enough to get a rented mount from the Strausses Saddlery and Stable. It wasn’t a hard ride, and it wasn’t difficult at all seeing where Bicuspid had raced through, not only from his tracks, but from the trail of dust. Miss Emily caught sight of Doc and the Marshal as they came up on top of the last hill that led down into the valley where Doc and Morgan’s ranch was located.

Their place was tucked into a valley among a v-shaped grove of trees which had found a water source in a section of rocky hills behind. The track from town brought riders in towards the front of the homestead, the open end of the V. There was a modest house, painted yellow; a large barn, painted red; a pen for livestock, and an open fence that must have enclosed the boundary of the yard. There were some white and red and speckled chickens running loose. There were a few pigs, as well as one lone cow.

Hotch had crawled to a stop to survey the situation. This gave the Countess a chance to catch up to them.

“What is it?” she murmured. Doc was the one holding the reins, keeping Bicuspid from heading down the hills.

“The gate is open,” Doc observed.

“Why does that mean trouble?” Miss Emily asked. 

"Morgan would not have left the gate open,” Reid insisted.

“Maybe he left in a hurry. He was worried about you,” Hotch offered.

“The gate squeaks something awful when you open it,” Reid said.

“I don’t know why you’ve never fixed that gate,” the Countess shook her head.

“Because I like to know when the gate is opened and closed,” Reid whispered.

“Look, ma’am, I don’t mean any offense by this, but you need to take yourself back to town,” Hotch said to the Countess. She gave Hotch a frosty frown.

“Do you honestly believe I have never been exposed to gunfire in my entire life, Marshal? You think I spent the War hiding in my room, sewing doilies and knitting socks for the soldiers? You really believe all I should do is cower behind you, and let you do all the shooting? Like I haven’t been fending for myself for how many years against a long list of unsavory characters? You need to develop a more realistic view of the lives of women,” she frowned at him, digging under her burgundy skirt and withdrawing a Colt handgun. She snapped it open, checked the bullet chamber, and slapped it shut again. Hotch blinked at her in surprise, as much for the appearance of the handgun as for having the location of her holster flashed at him along with all those white underskirts.

“Doesn’t that chaff?” Doc asked. Miss Emily’s anger evaporated into a smirk.

“This is no place for a lady,” Hotch continued.

“I think we can both agree that I am not a lady,” Miss Emily growled. She pointed towards the eerily-quiet house. “We can’t stay up here all day,” she said. “We’ve already been spotted, I’m sure. Do you plan to ride down together, or do we split up, and go in from different directions?”

“I will go down alone, and you two will come in from behind the barn,” Reid whispered softly. Hotch inhaled like he’d been shot.

“No,” he disagreed.

“Get down, Marshal,” Doc ordered. 

“No,” Hotch repeated.

“Miss Emily, there’s a trunk by the doors to the hay loft. Open the trunk, set up what you find in the trunk, and open the loft doors. Point it towards the house,” Doc said.

“What’s in the trunk, Doc?” Miss Emily asked.

“Whatever you do, don’t drop it out of the hay loft. You’re liable to take out all my chickens in one fell swoop.”

“No harm, no foul. We can have them for dinner later.”

“You know I am right fond of my chickens,” Doc protested. “You be nice to them. They are gentle, docile creatures.”

“Exceptionally tasty too,” Miss Emily teased.

“Damn you, don’t you shoot my chickens,” he warned her, pointing one finger at her and giving up nervous smile in the mix. “If you see any sign of Old George in my house through the windows, you take him down.”

“Understood,” she nodded. 

“Marshal?” Doc whispered. 

“No,” Hotch protested.

“Hotch, you need to get down.” 

“No,” Hotch repeated.

“Come on over, Marshal. Misty can carry the both of us,” Miss Emily said as she patted her rented mount’s neck.

“No,” Hotch refused.

“All right then. Guess I’ll walk, but that’s going to look mighty suspicious!”

Doc went to slip down out of the saddle. Hotch caught him around the waist with both arms, and breathed against his neck for a moment.

“Be careful. That man’s a wanted killer,” Hotch whispered.

“I’d’ve never taken you to be the clingy sort, Marshal,” Doc murmured, well aware of how the Countess was watching their exchange. Reid slipped out of Hotch’s arms and down to the ground. The Countess put a hand on Bicuspid’s reins to keep Hotch from following Doc down the rocky hill.


	16. Captain George Foyet

It was an agonizing wait, watching Doc progress down the rocky hill and towards the open gate which had alerted him to trouble. Once he passed through the open gate, Miss Emily guided her horse and Hotch’s horse around the crest of the ridge and to the other side of the homestead, so they could approach unseen from the behind the big red barn.

Hotch kept his eyes glued to Reid, watching his thin figure as he stared at the house with trepidation. The front door was wide open like the gate, and it was unlikely Morgan had left it that way. Reid drew his Smith & Wesson and headed forward.

The Marshal and the Countess reached the crest of the hill and a path that led down to the barn. They barely stopped before they collided with the back of the building. Hotch was off Bicuspid before the horse had even stopped. Aaron yanked the barn door open, and helped get both animals inside. He yanked the door closed again.

The Countess raced up the ladder to the loft while Hotch sped for the front of the structure, through loose straw, past a puzzled barn cat who fled in the other direction, hissing wildly. Hotch stopped when he recognized his own horse from Colorado. He was standing in the last stall, nose deep in a pouch of oats. One of his legs was bandaged. The horse nodded to Hotch, and Hotch nodded back. Maybe he should ask him his name finally?

In the stall next to Hotch’s Colorado steed was George Foyet’s ghostly-pale mount. He was calmly and quietly munching oats too. Hotch’s veins turned to jelly when he saw the drops of blood which wound from the horse stalls towards the front of the barn and the two double doors there.

Hotch reached the doors, and peered out of the crack between them. Doc was walking up onto the porch, gun at the ready. His footsteps announced his approach.

His eyes were following a path on the boards, and Hotch was willing to bet it was a trail of blood drops.

“Mother of God,” Miss Emily gasped from above. “Doc, you have been holding out on me. I have always, always, always wanted to shoot one of these!” she whispered, giddy with excitement.

Hotch glanced up, burning with curiosity. The Countess was almost directly overhead, but he couldn’t see through the boards to know what she had found in the trunk. There were metallic clanking noises, like a tripod unfolding and being dropped to the ground. The edge of her skirt appeared, and a hint of white petticoats as well. She braced the toes of her small black boots against the edge of the boards, and dropped something heavy and metallic into place on the tripod. Hotch heard more metallic rattling, like a great chain being unfurled. The very end of a belt of large bullets draped off the end of the boards.

The loft doors remained closed. Hotch understood why. Reid had not yet entered the front door of the house. He was still in the line of fire. Doc’s boots thudded across the wooden planks of the porch, and he peered inside the portal.

“You are a difficult man to locate, Doctor Reid,” a voice called out. “Put that gun down and come inside. Come inside, I said. I am in dreadful need to your assistance.”

It was George Foyet in the flesh.

“Marshal! You better show yourself!!” Foyet called out. “Doctor, I said come inside! Marshal Hotchner!! I know you’re out there. I saw two horses on the ridge. I know you’re there. You put down your firearm, and you come out where I can see you.”

Reid’s weapon thumped down to the porch, but he remained standing in the doorway. He had both hands behind himself, and he seemed to be motioning to Hotch to stay right where he was. He could motion all he wanted. Hotch wasn’t listening.

“Foyet? Is that you?” Hotch called out as he opened one of the barn doors.

“You damned well know it’s me, Marshal. Don’t play coy.”

“I don’t know what you think you’re going to gain from this,” Hotch replied as he stepped into the light.

“There you are,” George laughed from the shadows inside the front door.

“Doc Reid hasn’t done you any harm. You let him go,” Hotch insisted.

“Let him go, my ass,” Foyet answered. Reid shuddered. “I need the doctor, Marshal, but I don’t need you. Get your ass up here on this porch!”

“Stay where you are,” Reid said to Hotch.

“Get up here!” Foyet howled. He reached out of the shadows and snatched onto Doc, spinning him around and pointing a long blade at his face. Reid closed his eyes and dropped to his knees.

Why had Reid surrendered so easily? Hotch was asking himself this over and over in the three seconds of time it took him to cross the space between the barn and the front porch.

“Drop your weapons, Marshal. Both of them. Now,” Foyet hissed, jabbing at Reid’s cheek, tugging hard on his hair, lifting his head back and laying the blade tight to his exposed neck.

“You need him. Don’t do anything stupid, Foyet,” Hotch begged, climbing the stairs, dropping the Le Mat to the left and the Remington to the right.

“Get up here. Get inside. Close the door,” Foyet ordered. Hotch obeyed without question, closing the door with a slam.

Once his eyes adjusted to the light, Hotch got a gander at his long-sought prey. George Foyet looked like hell. He was pale as death, scruffy and unwashed. He smelled something awful, and most of the stench was rising from the wound in his right thigh. Foyet was thin, and he was gray and grizzled, with close-cropped hair, and dirty clothes. He was grinning like Death himself, with his precious blade drawn and held tight to Doc’s throat. That wasn’t his only weapon though. A Colt handgun rested on his hip as well.

Doc was as stiff as a corpse. The fearsome ghost of Captain Foyet had haunted Doc for years, and Doc’s terror made him unable to see that the physical manifestation of his fears was nothing but flesh and blood. A lot less blood than there ought to be, considering how pale the man was.

“Marshal, you look all right for someone who was so close to death only yesterday morning,” Foyet observed. “Guess that’s all thanks to you, isn’t it, Doc?” he growled, yanking Reid’s hair, shaking his head. “Well, I’m gonna be needing a little of that healing touch, because some son of a bitch put a bullet in my leg, and try as I might to find the fucking thing, I haven’t been able to. So if you don’t mind, the Marshal and I are going to finish our business first, and then you are going to find that bullet for me, and fix my leg up, or when your slave finally gets tired of whoring around town and brings your baby girl home, I’m going to cut them both to pieces before your very eyes. How does that sound? You want to ask the Marshal what he thinks?”

Reid blinked at Hotch and shook his head as he shut his eyes tight again.

“Go on, Doc. Don’t be shy. Ask the Marshal to tell you all about what I did to his wife and his boy. It’s not like either of you are getting out of this alive. So, ask the Marshal what it’s like to come home and find your loved ones sliced open and bled like pigs at slaughter. Ask the Marshal, but do it quick like, because I’m going to cut him open too. You want to watch me kill him?”

“In the kitchen,” Reid rasped.

“Kitchen?” Foyet puzzled.

“This rug is Persian. Don’t make a mess of it. The kitchen. It’s that way,” Reid babbled as he pointed to the left. Hotch glanced into the indicated room. There was a lovely stretch of windows on the front wall which faced the barn. The Marshal had a good idea why Reid wanted Foyet in the kitchen, and it had nothing to do with the expensive carpet in front of the door. Foyet spit on the carpet to show his disdain for that whole idea.

“You think I’m an idiot?” he scowled, dragging a thin red mark into Reid’s skin. “You pull anything funny, and I’m going kill you right along with the Marshal.”

“Lower the kn…kn…knife, and let me take a look at your leg, Captain,” Reid stammered.

Hotch winced. Foyet’s face screwed up in puzzlement. His mouth went to one side, collapsed tight, then sprung open wide in shock and embarrassment as he yanked Reid around to get a better look at him.

“What did you call me?” Foyet demanded, lifting the knife blade and letting Doc get a close-up look at the deadly silver edge. George was holding it against the bridge of Reid’s nose.

“Cap…Cap…Captain.”

“Nobody’s called me that for some time,” Foyet grinned happily, lowering his knife. Years fell away from his gray features. “ ‘Captain Foyet’. I miss being called that. I miss it something awful. Marshal Hotchner, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you stop where you are,” George ordered. Hotch paused on the threshold into the kitchen, and looked back.

“If you want the doctor to help you, he’s going to need a table, and sterile instruments,” Hotch said.

“Doc, why would you call me ‘Captain’? Do I know you from somewhere else?” Foyet asked of Reid, who was giving Hotch the funniest stare.

“George, you’re going to bleed to death if you keep stalling,” Hotch said. “Or die of infection. You been poking around that bullet hole with your knife?”

“Stay where you are!” Foyet shouted at Hotch. He threw Reid hard to floor and yelled at him. “DOC! ANSWER ME! WHERE DO YOU KNOW ME FROM?!”

Reid scampered backwards until he was pressed against the doorframe. His face was white with fear, and his eyes were wide and glassy. Hotch put a hand down and helped pull the shaking young man to his feet.

“George, if you want help, come into the kitchen. You better treat Doc right too,” Hotch warned. “If you need the man’s help, you can’t be threatening to kill him every other minute. Can’t you see how scared he is? You want him to slip with his instruments, and make you lose even more blood than you already have?”

“I am not getting up on that table, and let you cut me up like a Christmas goose,” Foyet protested.

“How did you get shot in the leg, Captain?” Hotch asked as he pulled Doc into the kitchen backwards. Foyet limped forward and scowled at the pair of them as he put his knife back into the scabbard on his leg. 

“What makes you think I got shot?”

“You said some… some… son of a bitch put a bullet in your leg,” Reid stammered. He could hardly put a sentence together. His fingers trembled as he undid his vest and left it on the chair by the window. A bullet whizzed past Reid’s head. He dropped to his knees again, curling his arms around his head.

“Doc, start talking,” Foyet demanded, leveling his gun at Reid. Doc swallowed his words and goggled at the gun. “TALK!!” Foyet screamed, shooting again. The second bullet clipped a hurricane lamp and shattered it, sending glass and oil everywhere. It also shattered the picture which had been sitting on a tiny round table next to the lamp, in the center between the front windows. The silver picture frame fell off the table and onto the floor. Hotch’s eyes landed on the picture – the woman was thin, tall, and blonde, and she bore a striking resemblance to Doc. Hotch knew at once that Foyet’s shot had taken out a picture of Doc’s mother. Doc narrowed his eyes at the Captain. The scared young man took on the air of an angry tom cat in that moment. If he had had a tail, it would have been bushed out like a bottle brush.

“We met during the War,” Reid babbled, hands twitching as he pulled off his vest and mopped up the oil. He caressed the picture and put it out of harm’s way, flat down on the table.

“Where did we meet?” Foyet wanted to know.

“We can talk about old times after your leg is fixed, George,” Hotch intervened. “Doc needs to wash his hands and get ready. You need to get up on the table.”

“Shut up, Marshal. I am holding a conversation with the doctor, and I really am getting tired of you butting in. Answer the question, Doc. Where did we meet?” Foyet growled.

“Georgia,” Reid whispered. Foyet scowled at him and shook his head in puzzlement.

“I don’t recall your face,” he disagreed. “Did we serve together? You sure you got the right man?”

Reid hunched himself down, and smiled triumphantly at Foyet. “I knew you wouldn’t remember me,” he whispered.

“Georgia?” Foyet puzzled.

“Wash your hands,” Hotch gave Reid a tender push towards the sink basin, where a pitcher of fresh water rested. Breakfast dishes were sitting on the sideboard drain: two glasses, two plates, a couple spoons and bowls. There was a wooden spatula, and a heavy skillet, and an old, rusted knife with a long, thin, curved blade. Anybody else would have thrown that knife away, would have been ashamed to have it lying around their kitchen.

“I’m sorry I don’t recall your face,” Foyet said, coming cautiously towards the heavy wooden table that dominated the room. George had his back to the windows. Hotch made the mistake of glancing up behind Foyet. It was only for a second. Hotch had seen the hay loft doors opening. He had caught the glint of the sun bouncing off the double- barreled metal rifle of a Gatling gun.

Foyet saw Hotch glance up and saw his eyes go wide. Foyet spun around and caught the glint as well. In the nick of time, George threw himself away from the windows, just as a deadly spray of bullets shattered the windows in the upper story of the house. Hotch could hear the Countess cursing loudly as he ducked for cover. Doc threw himself flat to the floor.

The Gatling gun gave a mechanical whirring noise, and it swung around for a second spray. This time, the front windows in the lower story of the house shattered in a hail storm of glass. Bullets whizzed around the kitchen. The grimace of utter annoyance on Doc’s face was so priceless that Hotch almost laughed out, almost. They both sprung back up the second the noise stopped.

Inside the house, when Hotch raised back up, Foyet lifted his gun and fired. Hotch feared for one second that Foyet had spotted the Countess in the barn loft and had fired at her. Instead, Hotch felt a ping in his shoulder, right in one of his stab wounds, and he cried out, hitting the floor, holding his shoulder. Reid flattened himself on the ground next to Hotch. He put himself in front of the Marshal, protecting him from Foyet’s line of fire.

“Let him be,” Reid stammered as Foyet loomed over the both of them where they were sprawled against the floor. George dragged himself up to the table and leaned on it.

“I need you, Doc, at least for now, but I don’t need the Marshal another damned minute. Unless you are prepared to die, get out of my way,” Foyet warned, leveling the gun at them both.

“Please let him go, Captain,” Reid pleaded.

“You keep calling me that. Where do I know you from?”

“Seven Oaks,” Reid babbled. Foyet tilted his head to the side, and then straightened like a ramrod had been shoved up his spine.

“Virginia, is that you?” George laughed, his ghoulish grin filled genuine mirth. It was nauseating to watch, and Hotch really wasn’t in any condition to be nauseated. Blood was trickling out of him at a liberal rate, covering his left shoulder. But at least Foyet was sufficiently distracted and wasn’t firing any more bullets at him. That was probably Doc’s plan. Hotch watched the frozen second between Foyet’s question and Doc’s response, and it scared the hell out of him, the deliberate calculation that crossed Doc’s innocent face.

“Yes! It’s me – Virginia! You used to call me that all the time. Do you remember me now?” Reid laughed too, wobbling to his feet, taking Foyet’s outstretched hand.  
Foyet put his gun down and clasped Doc’s limb with both hands. Doc was shaking, shuddering, cackling as though he was suddenly too happy. Foyet was incredibly delighted to have put a name to the face at last.

“Virginia? Why, I never? Look at you! It’s the beard that threw me off. You look good, honey. I would have never recognized you at all,” Foyet remarked. “It’s so good to see an old familiar face.”

The Captain was beside himself with happiness. Nostalgia washed over his face. He was giddy. He was overjoyed. He had no idea he was about to be taken by surprise. Reid’s sweet, tear-stained face mutated with viciousness, twisted itself inside out with hatred. Hotch saw Foyet’s eyes fill with fear at the last second when Reid snarled, grabbed Foyet by the throat, shoved him backwards to surface of the wooden table, and buried the thin, long, rusted kitchen knife straight into George’s evil heart and dragged it downward through Foyet’s body.

“I remember you very well, Captain!” Reid hissed.

Doc stabbed Foyet again and again. George was thrashing around, giving a frightened, gargled scream. Blood was jetting everywhere. The doctor wasn’t being too awfully careful about where he plunged that knife, or how many times he stabbed George. Hotch wasn’t in any hurry to interfere either. Aside from the intense pain rushing through him, and the blood trickling out of him, Hotch was at an emotional crossroads, so to speak.

Although Hotch knew his duty, that he should get up and save Foyet’s life, in his heart of hearts, all Hotch could see was Haley’s pale, lifeless corpse, and Jack’s pain-filled expression, and all the other faces of all the other people that Foyet had killed or maimed or destroyed over the years. Hotch couldn’t scrape together enough mercy to fill a thimble when it came to what was happening to George Foyet. Old George didn’t deserve mercy, least of all from Doc Reid. So Hotch let Reid continue to stab Foyet.

George’s gun fell to the ground under the table, and Hotch kicked it aside. The heavy wooden piece of furniture was jerking with the impact of the angry, vicious stabbing that Reid continued to rain down on Foyet. George’s legs were twitching and jerking around. Doc was growling and snarling, even spitting, emitting animal noises that were making the hair stand up on Hotch’s scalp.

Doc finally stopped stabbing Foyet, but only because the knife broke in half. He jerked in surprise as if the spell was broken. His hands fell limp to his side. The rusted blade was jutting out of Old George’s ribs. Doc was sagging where he stood. He had tired himself out, and some of the hurtful anger long pent up inside him had drained away from his unhealed wounds. The only sound in the room was Doc’s labored breathing.

Hotch used the cabinet and the sink basin to pull himself upright. He steadied himself, and touched Reid on the shoulder.

“Doc? That’s enough,” Hotch whispered.

Hotch peeled Doc’s shaking, slippery fingers away from the empty handle that was clutched in his out-stretched grip. Doc slowly revolved to face Hotch. The young man’s features were absolutely blank again. Reid blinked at him, and Hotch caressed his shoulder.

“It’s okay. It’s me. It’s Hotch.”

Reid nodded in reply, and recognition slowly came back into his eyes.

“You can stop now,” Aaron whispered softly. 

“Stop?” Doc echoed. “Stop what?” he asked.

“It’s all right,” Aaron assured him. He pulled Doc close, and held on tight. It would have been a lovely moment. Would have been. But the not-quite dead corpse on the table decided to put his two cents’ worth in. Foyet inhaled one last shuddering intake of air.

“…What’d I ever do to you?....." George rasped with his final breath of life.

Suddenly there was a rush of noise on the front porch. It sounded like a wild mustang was pounding across the wooden planks. The front door slammed open and crashed into the wall behind. Hotch almost expected to see Zephyrus himself rush through the door. The Countess hurried in, her gun in hand.

“Hold your fire! Don’t shoot!” Hotch howled, whirling Doc behind himself and waving one hand at Miss Emily.

“Is it over?” she asked, pointing her Colt up to the ceiling.

“It’s over,” Hotch said grimly. Miss Emily could not have been more disappointed.

“Well, goddamn it,” she complained bitterly, dropping her arms to her sides.

“You’re bleeding,” Doc whispered, touching Hotch’s shoulder. If the Marshal had been in a humorous mood, he might have pointed out that Doc was covered in more blood than Hotch had on him, but this was no time for giddy retorts. He put his arms around Doc again and held him tight.

“Is he dead?” Miss Emily asked as she came into the kitchen and eyed the body on the table and the bloody mess in the room. Her steps crunched across the floor, which was littered with tiny pieces of shattered glass and splinters of wood from the window frames.

“You wanna check for a pulse, Nurse?” Hotch gasped as Doc prodded at his shoulder. The Countess jumped when she heard a crash of glass falling.

“I am so sorry about the windows,” Miss Emily said. 

“It’s all right,” Doc shrugged. Hotch couldn’t take any more. He cackled, and Doc gave him a frightened look.

“Ma’am, for future reference, you can join my posse anytime,” Hotch told Miss Emily.

Doc found half a smile, but that was only for a second before he became serious again.


	17. Keep in Touch

Morgan and Miss Emily were seated at the kitchen table. It had been scrubbed clean since George Foyet’s dead body had been removed for inspection by Mr. Rossi and the federal authorities who had arrived from Flagstaff by coach. They had hauled Foyet out on the porch to examine him, and had gathered every lamp or lantern around the house they could except the one Doc was using upstairs. The Law was giving Foyet a summary inspection to make certain he was who he was, and that he was no more. Upon being told that a civilian had dispatched Foyet, and then after having had a good look at said civilian, one federal marshal had remarked, “Are you sure it was him?” That seemed to be the prevailing sentiment.

Morgan and Miss Emily were staring down at the surface of the table. Morgan ran one hand along the grain, and paused in disbelief and reverence at each and every one of the thirty-seven gouges in the heavy wood, especially the five-inch gash down the middle. He chewed on his unlit cigar, and shook his head.

“That is a lot of hurt,” Miss Emily sighed sadly.

“I can’t believe Foyet is finally dead,” Morgan whistled.

“I can’t believe broke every window in the front of the house,” Miss Emily whispered. 

“I’m really sorry. I’ll stitch you some new curtains.”

Morgan reached over and patted her on the hand. 

“Don’t trouble yourself about the mess. We can fix the windows,” he promised. "I'm just grateful you and Doc are all right."

Morgan glanced up at the ceiling, because he heard boots scraping the wood boards in Reid’s upstairs bedroom.

“Wish you’d quit staring at me like that,” Doc was murmuring quietly as he dabbed a wash cloth to Hotch’s injured shoulder and cleaned away the blood.

“Like what?” Hotch slurred. The Marshal had had a couple shots of whiskey in order to take away the pain of his gunshot wound. Couple of, three or four, maybe even five shots. Truth was, he was feeling light-headed at the moment. Not woozy. Not giddy. Somewhere in between relieved and scared and nervous and exhausted. Not to mention thoroughly aroused. His eyes traveled over Doc’s face again, down his slender form.

Stabbing a person to death is hard work. There’s generally quite a lot of mess involved too. Doc had been awash with blood splatters. The first thing Morgan had done when he arrived home and got a good look at his friend was to draw water and push Doc in the tub, clothes and all. Hotch wasn’t staring at Doc because he was afraid the young man would snap again. He was staring at him because Doc had scrubbed from head to toe, and changed clothes, and he had actually shaved and combed his hair. Spencer Reid had cleaned up very nicely. Maybe too nicely. It was all Hotch could do not to reach out and caress his face every time he came close.

“I shouldn’t have done that. I almost got you killed. You don’t know how sorry I am,” Doc rambled, shaking his head and shyly meeting Hotch’s strange gaze. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Doc, you gonna run off at the mouth all night, or are you gonna stitch me up already?” Hotch grumbled. He was stripped down to the waist and digging his boots into the floor beside Reid’s disheveled bed. He had plans to climb into that same tub of water as soon as humanly possible, because he hadn’t had a decent bath in a week. Doc’s pristine state was making the Marshal mighty self-aware of just how filthy and smelly he was at this point.

“Luckily, the shot was a through-and-through, didn’t hit your collarbone, didn’t get your scapula and go down into your lungs or your ribs. So I got two holes to fix, not to mention the knife wound to stitch back up. You need to be patient with me, because I am not the best with a needle and thread,” Reid replied.

Doc turned away for a second, and Hotch stared at Reid’s bare feet on the wooden floor. They were long and slender and beautiful, like his hands. Hotch stared at Doc’s toes, and was nearly overwhelmed with the desperate need to kiss and nuzzle Doc’s feet to see if he was at all ticklish. Maybe Hotch should have stopped with two shots of whiskey and not taken any more?

Reid had no idea what weird thoughts were dancing around in Hotch’s head, and that was probably a good thing. The young man reached onto the side table and picked up his pair of glasses, which he rested on his nose and tucked behind his ears. His damp hair fell down into his face in shining, sandy ringlets that brushed his nose as he worked.

Hotch made a tiny undecipherable sound which Doc either didn’t register or chose to ignore. Reid lifted the needle to the light of the lantern on the side table and looked down at the spools of thread. He paused and looked back at the Marshal.

“What?” Hotch sighed. 

“What color do you want?”

“Are you serious?” Hotch frowned. “Like I give a fuck? Pick one, and get on with it already. The whiskey I drank is going to wear off soon.”

“You can always drink more whiskey,” Reid suggested, picking up a bright purple spool and taking off several inches of thick thread.

“I might have to talk to the law enforcement officers again, and I can’t have liquor on my breath when I do that.”

“You took a bullet. They should be understanding of the fact you needed to deaden the pain. I could have splashed your wounds with the whiskey instead of letting your drink it.”

“Waste of good liquor,” Hotch shook his head. Doc smiled.

It took Reid three tries to get the needle threaded. He was not inspiring a great amount of confidence from Hotch. Reid stood in front of the Marshal, not sure where to start or where to hold the Marshal. Aaron rested his hands on the slender hips before him, and struggled to keep his eyes, his hands, and his nose above the waist.

“We’ll begin with the one on the back. It’s smaller, and will take less time,” Reid decided, getting a good grip on Hotch’s shoulder. “This might hurt a little,” he added, pushing the needle through the Marshal’s skin at the start of the exit wound. Hotch winced, and clenched Reid’s hips tight.

“Make it fast,” the Marshal whimpered.

“One done,” Reid counted off. “Could you come forward a bit?” he asked. Hotch buried his face in Reid’s stomach, breathing against his skin. Doc smelled so delicious that Hotch pulled him even closer, putting a knee on either side of him and holding tight.

“Could you hurry up?” Hotch complained, when that was actually the last thing in the world that he wanted.

“Two,” the doctor said.

“Ow. Ow.”

“Three.”

“How many more you need back there?” Hotch growled. 

“Two more to be safe. That’s four. One more.”

“I don’t mean to be a pussy, but this is making my stomach churn. Think I’m gonna throw up,” Hotch warned.

“Last one. I promise. Done on the back. You are not a pussy, and please don’t throw up on me,” Doc murmured. “Let me have a look at your front. What are the odds Foyet would hit the same place as before?”

“Damned sadist,” Hotch muttered.

“I am not,” Reid defended hotly, kneeling down in front of Hotch and gazing up at his wound by lamp light.

“Not you, him,” Hotch growled as he rolled his eyes. “He knew right where he was aiming. Don’t kid yourself.”

“We need to watch you closely for infections. I’ll need to put about ten stitches in the front here. We need close the knife wound and the bullet wound both. Cover them all with gauze and maybe a smear or two of one of Miss Hazel’s special salves? Is that all right?” Doc asked, standing back up and reaching for more thread.

Hotch turned around on the bed, feeling woozy. He sat back against the headboard, stretched out his legs, and leaned his head on the wall behind, closing his eyes. Stars were dancing in his brain.

“You all right there?” Doc worried, tracing his fingers through the locks of dark hair that stood straight up and forward from Hotch’s head like a boar’s bristly coat.

“Yeah. Fine. I need to breathe for a second. Hold up,” Hotch commanded. “The world is spinning.”

“When you’re ready,” Doc whispered. “Take your time.”

“Come here,” the Marshal murmured, lifting his head, opening his eyes, and taking Doc’s hands. He pulled Reid towards the bed, then up onto the bed, and cupped his hips. Doc nervously straddled Hotch’s thighs, and examined his wound in the light. The bed groaned with their combined weight. “Stop poking me for a second. I want to tell you something,” Hotch muttered, taking Doc’s hands once more.

“What?” Reid asked.

“What you did, I owe you my life. Covering me that way? Blocking Old George’s line of fire like that?”

“You would have done the same for me.”

“Let's not forget how you shot a man and dragged my miserable ass through the desert.”

“You would have done the same for me.”

“But it’s my job to risk my life for others. You didn’t have to do that. You could have run like hell and never looked back, and I want to tell you,” Hotch stopped, took a deep breath, and started again. “I want you to know what that means to me.”

“You’re welcome,” Doc smiled shyly.

“You don’t owe me nothing, but you risked your life, your future, your family. I appreciate that.”

“You’re welcome,” Doc repeated. “Are you all right? Would you like more whiskey?”

“I drink any more whiskey, and I’m going to do something stupid,” Hotch replied unsurely, worshipping Reid with his eyes as the doctor pressed the needle against the Marshal’s shoulder wound. Hotch leaned sideways, nuzzled Reid’s cheek, and buried his nose in the doctor’s ear, moaning softly as the needle was tugged out of his skin. A quiver shook the doctor’s frame in response.

“Uhm, am I hurting you?” Doc asked. 

“Yes,” Hotch moaned. “Oh, yes.” 

“Should I stop?”

“Don’t stop,” Hotch begged.

“Marshal, these stitches are going to be crooked if you don’t hold still.”

“Can I write to you?” Hotch asked shyly.

“What?” Reid asked as he continued working. He raised up from Hotch’s lap, and was giving the Marshal a curious look.

“I want to write to you,” Hotch repeated, knowing he shouldn’t be saying this, but he was unable to stop himself.

“Are you hiding a secret talent for lyric poetry that you’re dying to express?” Doc wondered.

“I want to send letters. I just… I want to keep in touch.”

“Oh,” Reid nodded. “I’d like that. You can write to me about your adventures, chasing down outlaws and in-laws, and monsters, and such.”

“Can I visit you when I’m out this way?” Hotch pleaded. Doc’s eyes fluttered rapidly at this request.

“There’s no need to be so formal about it. We’re all friends here. When you’re out this way, you can always stop by. I’d like that too.” 

“Thank you.”

“Four done,” Doc murmured. Hotch was nosing the young man’s cheek again. “Do you need me to stop? Is the pain too much?”

“No,” Hotch whispered.

“Aaron, you got to stop breathing on me like that. It’s quite distracting,” Doc whispered back. Hotch puckered up, and blew a stream of air gingerly against Reid’s cheek. The gentle teasing brought warmth to Doc’s serious expression.

“Look at me,” Hotch murmured. 

“What?” Reid paused, turning sideways.

“Closer,” Hotch whispered, stroking Doc’s chin. Reid complied. Hotch nuzzled Reid’s mouth with a tender touch, a whisper of a kiss. “I’ll have you know, Spencer Reid, that you are the best-looking thing I’ve had in my lap in quite some time.”

“Oh, really?” Doc breathed. “How long?” he asked after a nervous pause and an audible gulp.

“So damn long,” Hotch complained before he planted another light kiss, catching the rim of Doc’s glasses. He moved his hands slowly to Doc’s hips again as he nuzzled his smooth cheek, back along his long jaw towards his ear. Aaron flicked the tip of his tongue against Doc’s earlobe, and Reid gasped. Doc’s hands plunged downward.

“OWWWWW!” Hotch shrieked. Reid retracted the needle from Hotch’s hand.

“You behave and sit still, Marshal, or I'll switch to a bigger needle," Doc warned.

Downstairs, Morgan heard Hotch’s shout, and he grinned at Miss Emily.

“The Marshal is not really good with pain, is he?” Morgan mused.

“Stitches are not Doc Reid’s forte. Should I go up there and help them out?” Miss Emily worried.

“No,” Morgan shook his head, patting her hand. “Give them some space. Doc is out of practice. That’s all.”

Hotch shouted again.


	18. The Desert's Kiss

Epilogue - The Desert's Kiss

 

Aaron Hotchner stretched out his tired legs and shifted his weary backside, moving around to get his blood pumping once more. The train ride between Albuquerque and Boulder City was ungodly boring. He had fallen asleep three times already. There were only two other people in the train car with him: a mother and her young son, both of whom were also asleep. He had chosen this car because it was so empty. The other cars were much more crowded. Late afternoon sunlight poured through the travel car, filling it with heat and golden light. A check of his watch showed Hotch that he had been asleep for nearly an hour. The train was only an hour outside of Boulder City, and they should make it into the station there around dinner time.

Hotch caressed the black, velvet-bound book which rested on his right thigh. He stroked the cover fondly, and toyed with the red ribbon that marked the place where he had left off rereading the contents. He treasured this book, loved each page, knew some of the passages by heart. Doc knew the entire thing by heart, of course. The well-traveled tome had been mailed back and forth between Hotch and Doc for a little over a year now, and it was filled with their correspondence to each other.

When Hotch had asked for permission to write to Doc, he had not been prepared for Reid to hand him this book, several pencils, and a supply of postage stamps. Rough brown paper to wrap the book in was tucked underneath it. Each of them kept the book for a few weeks, then shipped it back to the other one. Doc had taken to keeping the postage marks and taping them in the back of the book, like the location stamps in a passport. Hotch smiled as he read through some them: Denver, Albuquerque, San Antonio, Atchison, Kansas City, Natchez, Washington, Boston. The list went on. Hotch’s first entry had been written on the train he had taken to Colorado as he had left Boulder City.

The two lonely men had slow-danced around each other for a little over a year now, and it had been a beautiful dance indeed. This book had allowed them the chance to get to know one another more completely. The letter exchange was one aspect, but even sweeter to Hotch had been the brief visits when he had been close enough to Boulder City to stop by, or when Doc was able to take a train to where Hotch had a case. Hotch had found Doc was actually very helpful to have along when it came to certain cases he was asked to investigate. They worked well together, and Hotch was sorry that Doc had resisted Pinkerton’s offer, because he could see how damned good Doc would have been at this sort of job.

Over the last year, they had progressed ever-so slowly in their physical relationship as well. Hotch had known it was going to take time, and he was patient as a saint. Morgan had helped with that. It hadn’t been completely unlike when Hotch had first been courting Haley, and her big sister Jessica had been their chaperon. Except this time, instead of a kindly girl who was barely twenty, and who was squarely in Hotch’s corner, the new chaperon was an over-protective man with two fully-loaded guns on his hips at all times, and a nervous fear that Hotch was going to somehow break Doc’s heart. As much as Morgan liked Hotch as a person, as much as he respected the Marshal, Morgan was not ready to simply relinquish the guardian role that he had played with Doc for all these years. And that was all right with Hotch. He respected the fact that Morgan cared so much for Doc that he was willing to go above and beyond to make sure his friend didn’t get hurt.

Hotch and Doc had progressed slowly, from holding hands to pecks on the cheek, to delicate kisses, to sharing a blanket out under the stars in New Mexico one time. Hotch had stayed awake all night just to watch Doc sleeping. Morgan had stayed awake all night too, gun in hand, staring at Hotch with narrowed eyes, making sure the Marshal stayed on his own side of the blankets.

Morgan had not been able to come to San Francisco, and had fretted for the entire time that Doc was gone. Hotch was on a case and working hard, but he and Doc had spent one evening lying around the hotel room, indulging in long, slow, wet kisses that had lasted for hours. Doc had come back from San Francisco with stars in his eyes, and Morgan had noted the difference.

Morgan had remarked on this difference when Hotch had arrived to spend Christmas in Boulder City. He didn’t follow Hotch and Doc around with a drawn pistol any longer – that was an improvement. Hotch had stayed close to Doc’s side during that December visit, following him like a shadow, so much so that Callie had developed a keen jealousy against the Marshal. If he got too close to Doc, Callie would run over and sit on Doc’s knee, or insist on hearing a story, or walk around behind him, holding onto his side, pushing the Marshal away if he came too near for her liking.

Hotch turned pages in the black velvet book, finding the entries for December, and running his fingers over the words that covered the pages there. Aaron remembered Christmas Eve morning quite well. He had been sitting up in the hayloft, watching Doc below as Reid walked around tending his horses, feeding the pigs, tossing corn to the chickens in their winter coop. As Hotch had watched Doc hunch down on a small, three-legged stool and milk Bess the cow, he composed a letter to him in the black book, telling him in a slow flow of words exactly how much he meant to him, how much he had changed his life, gave him new direction, gave him new purpose, a reason to keep on living. Doc had been ever so aware of the eyes on him, and he had a patient sense of humor about it.

“You better be careful with that lantern up there,” Doc had commented as he stood up from the stool and walked Bess around, letting her step outside for fresh air. Hotch waited patiently for his turn for attention too, knowing it would eventually come once the animals had been cared for.

On the train, Hotch closed the book, tucking it against to his chest, continuing to reminisce. When he had finished with the animals, Doc had finally climbed up into the hayloft to see what Hotch was doing. Hotch read him the letter he had just composed, and then gave him back the book so he could write his own response. Doc had taken the pencil and traced a heart on the next blank page. He promptly gave the book back to Hotch.

“That’s it?” Hotch pointed. 

“What’s it look like?”

“A heart,” Hotch said. Reid smiled playfully at him and leaned back against the bales of hay, chuckling softly to himself.

“Turn it over,” Doc had grinned. Hotch did. He looked at Doc and waited for an explanation. Reid’s wide smile teased itself into a thin line that crooked up one side of his face. “Marshal, for a bright man, there are times when you can be downright slow,” he whispered.

Hotch had lowered the book and cast his eyes at Doc again, ready to be insulted. Except that Doc was undoing his shirt, and unbuckling his belt. He motioned Hotch closer, and the light went off in Hotch’s head. They spent the better part of hour rolling around in that hayloft, proving every one of Miss Jennifer’s gossipy suppositions wrong. Hotch was never going to forget the feel and taste of Doc, or the vision of all that beautiful nakedness in the early morning light. The memory of Doc straddling Aaron's hips, his slender body quivering as they moved together, how those sandy curls were dipping in his face with each thrust, the way his long fingers had clenched Hotch's shoulders -- Hotch could almost feel it now even. The look of sheer bliss on Doc's face that morning would remain in Hotch's mind until the day he died.

They had both shown up to breakfast with hay in their hair, itching horribly under their clothes, and smiling like they had shared nothing short of a religious epiphany in that barn loft. It was plainly obvious what they had been doing. Morgan had had a difficult time keeping a straight face throughout the meal. It was later that day when Hotch realized that Doc had left a mark on his neck, and that he had rebuttoned Doc’s shirt incorrectly.

Hotch had had to return to Washington in January, and he didn’t get back West until in late spring, the middle of April. He was not allowed to come to Boulder City. Morgan ordered him to stay away. A wagon train had come through, and they had been carrying cholera with them. The epidemic had spread from the wagon train, through the mining camp, through the town, and even to some of the surrounding, outlying farms as well.

Hotch had waited in Flagstaff with his heart in his throat, hanging on for word from Morgan when it was all right to come. He went a fortnight with no word, and fearing the worst, had come ahead against orders.

Hotch didn’t have the courage to open the book to the entries from April. There wasn’t a family in town who hadn’t lost someone, and there were other families where everyone had perished. The population of Boulder City and her outlying areas had been cut by a third, even taking into account that the sparse human remnants of the wagon train had settled in town as well.

Morgan had fallen ill, and Callie too. Morgan survived because Doc didn’t leave his side, plying him with every one of Miss Hazel’s brews that might have helped. Callie had been at death’s door, and the fear of losing her had driven Doc to near madness. He refused to eat or drink until she was well again, had stayed by her side as he had done with Morgan. Her condition had been so serious that Morgan had gone to the lengths of digging a grave for her, under her favorite tree, under the shade of the rocky valley that protected their home. When Doc learned what Morgan had done, he crept out of the house at night and refilled the hole by hand, tearing off a fingernail or two by clawing at that rocky soil in his desperation to beat away the horrible reality that he could lose his daughter.

Callie had survived by the skin of her teeth, but then Doc fell ill next. Morgan hadn’t had the heart to write to Hotch and tell him this, and that was why he had not sent word. When Hotch arrived in person, against orders to stay away, he had worried that Morgan would greet him with gunfire. Instead, Morgan had been very grateful for his help. Law and order in town had fallen to the wayside, and having someone like Hotch with a badge and a stern, authoritarian attitude had helped with restoring order and normalcy. At the very least, it was a benefit to have another able-bodied man there who could help dig graves and see that those who had perished received a proper burial. Together, Morgan and Hotch had nursed Doc back from the brink of death. Miss Emily too had been more than happy to sit by his bedside and read to him, rocking Callie in her arms all the while.

Hotch had had to leave for a case in Utah before Doc was on his feet again, but he had spent that last night by Reid’s bed, talking to him, telling him how it wouldn’t be long before he would be back in Boulder City, and he damned well expected Doc to be healthy and on his feet by that time. Deathly-pale and not quite in his right mind, Reid had muttered something about rude hallucinations, and drifted back into a fitful sleep. Hotch had stood by the bedroom door so long the next morning that he almost missed his train. He didn’t want to think that the last time he might see Doc would be like that.

In late May, the book had been delivered to him in Utah. When Hotch didn’t see Doc’s handwriting on the brown- paper wrapping, he hesitated in opening the package. Curiosity overwhelmed him though, and he eventually gave in to his need to know. Morgan had written to let Hotch know that Doc was recovering, but that he had his hands full caring for those left sick and destitute by the epidemic. 

The disease had left its mark on the tiny town. The mine had had to close briefly for lack of workers, but had reopened a short time later with reinforcements who arrived once word had spread that jobs were available. Fear of cholera did not keep everyone away.

Miss Jennifer had been one of the casualties, along with two-thirds of her working girls. The brothel was closed. Some of the girls had left for Flagstaff, while others left for Carson City. Miss Emily had taken over the saloon and boarding house. Ashley Seaver had stayed to help her. Hotch wondered how long it might be before the Countess reopened a brothel, or if she ever would.

Miss Penelope had lost a third of her staff at the hotel, and she could have hired more help, but her establishment remained closed in mourning. Sophie too had been one of the casualties of the epidemic. She had been laid to rest with her parents. They were finally reunited. Miss Penelope’s heart wasn’t in pie-making and biscuit-fixing right at the moment. She wasn’t alone in her mourning though. The Archers had lost Mrs. Archer, Miss Lila’s new husband, and her new baby. Mrs. Strauss had lost Mr. Strauss. Mrs. Paulson had lost her husband to George Foyet, and now she had lost four of her six children to the epidemic. She was clinging to that ranch and those horses with all the will she had left in her.

There were changes around Doc and Morgan’s house as well. Morgan hadn’t been specific about what those changes had been, but Doc’s next letter had made passing references to making adjustments, and being grateful for having each other to lean on, although he had admitted that Morgan was ready to shoot him if he didn’t stop running around fixing situations for people. Knowing Doc was up to his usual shenanigans had left a smile on Hotch’s face for a week.

Hidden inside the folds of the pages from May had been an unexpected treasure – a photograph Morgan had taken of Doc and Callie. Doc was sitting on the edge of his bed, combing Callie’s hair for her, fixing it into a long braid. The little girl was wailing and howling, mouth open, eyes closed, tears rolling down her blurry face. Doc was wearing a faint smile as he shyly gazed up at the camera. He was thinner than ever before, and his skull was almost visible through his skin, but he was alive, and smiling, and that was all Hotch had wanted to see. Hotch didn’t question where the camera had come from. He knew Doc had seen a camera in a shop in San Francisco, and had examined it from stem to stern. No doubt the crafty young man had built one from scratch at home. Hotch was so grateful to Morgan for that photograph that he had burst into tears when it fell into his hands.

Hotch had stared at that photograph for hours, days even. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine the way Doc’s house had smelled when Reid was cooking down in the kitchen, the way the boards had creaked as he walked around the library, the way his small bed had complained from their combined weight. He could hear Doc talking to his animals in the barn, and with the same soft, gentle voice, how Reid had read to Callie in the evening before putting her to bed, answering every last question his precious daughter would ask him. Hotch imagined Morgan and Doc playing cards in the evening, or sitting on the porch talking as they watched the sun setting. He imagined hearing Doc pace at night across the squeaky floorboards of his bedroom.

The train had changed speeds – Hotch could feel the movement of the cars shifting as it slowed around the turn that would bring it into Boulder City. His heart danced around happily. If he had had a tail, it would have been wagging in anticipation of seeing Doc again. Just as quickly though, nervous anxiety overtook his emotions. What if what he was doing was wrong? What if what he hoped he had seen wasn’t there? What if? He was taking such a big risk tonight. He wasn’t sure he was up for a disappointment if that’s what life had in store for him.

Hotch stepped off the train in Boulder City, his heart in his throat. The familiar wall of heat smacked him in the face as his boots clopped along the wooden platform. _'The desert's kiss,'_ Doc had jokingly told Aaron once. _'It's a bit dry and salty, but it's got its charms.'_

Hotch cast his eyes around for the familiar thin figure he knew would be there waiting for the train to pull in. His face lit up with affection, and then with concern, as Doc ambled slowly towards him with the aid of a cane. Aaron’s eyes were wide with shock. He almost fell, hurrying forward to lend support. 

"Oh, come on now. I don’t look as bad as all that, do I?” Reid grumbled, ducking down under his hat to hide his bruised face.

"What happened to you?” Hotch exclaimed, coming over and taking Doc’s elbow, letting the younger man lean on him. Doc laughed and accepted the support gratefully. 

“Your buddy Bicuspid and I, we had ourselves a bit of excitement a couple weeks back.”

“What did that maniac do to you?” Hotch worried.

“It’s a long story,” Reid offered. He waited for the happy grin that sprang up on Hotch’s face, and returned it back to him. They strolled along the station platform slowly, Hotch with his arm around Doc's skinny waist.

"Go on,” Hotch urged.

“I was taking Bicuspid out for a spin around the desert a couple week ago, like I said. Ever since Maggie died….” His voice trailed away. Hotch held him closer. 

“I am so sorry to hear,” he soothed. Doc brushed a quick hand over his face and ducked under his hat again.

“I can’t complain. She didn’t feel any pain. She went peacefully in her sleep. It was her time. We should all be as lucky to go the way Maggie went,” Doc sniffled. “Since she passed away, I have been attempting to make friends with Bicuspid. I thought it was going well.”

“And then?” Hotch questioned, watching the uniformed train crew as they helped passengers disembark and collect their luggage from the last car. 

“I was taking that fool out for a morning walk, getting my ass used to his saddle, because I tried riding him without a saddle, and he threw me off with one buck. He wasn’t having any part of that nonsense.”

Hotch eased Doc down onto the big trunk that was blocking their path at the end of the platform by the last train car. The downward motion of planting himself made true pain cross Doc’s face. Hotch rubbed the small of his back for him once he was firmly seated.

“Like I said, it was going well, when up popped this jack rabbit from out of his hole. He was about ten feet away from us.”

“Uh oh,” Hotch grinned. 

“This tale has a moral, and the moral is why Doc shouldn’t ride a horse that wants to wear a saddle.” 

“That’s not a moral,” Hotch felt obligated to point out. Doc poked him in the toes with his cane. 

“But it is the point. May I continue?” 

“Sure,” Hotch relented, budging against his hip, making more room for himself on the top of the large steamer trunk. 

“Bicuspid sees the jack rabbit. The jack rabbit sees Bicuspid. Bicuspid stamps his foot, and that jack rabbit, he takes off like that,” Doc explained, slapping his hands together and moving one forward like a shot. 

Hotch leaned against him, shaking, wishing he could quell his anticipatory laughter. 

“Like I said. This is why I ride mares, and why I do not use a saddle,” Doc muttered. 

"Bicuspid chased the jack rabbit?” 

“That horse of yours took off like he heard a gunshot and saw gates rise. He took off so fast, he gave me whiplash, and knocked me halfway out of the saddle.” Doc paused for dramatic effect. “You will note I said ‘halfway’,” he added softly. 

“Oh my goodness,” Hotch snickered, petting Doc’s back. 

“There I was, being dragged by my left leg across the Nevada desert at a truly frightening rate of speed, and I heard the voice of God,” Doc continued. 

“Did you really?” Hotch gasped. 

“No, but I am not ashamed to admit that I was plainly terrified,” Doc told him. “Several very meaningful revelations occurred to me at once.”

“Such as?”

“My first thought was, ‘The minute I am free of this lunatic stallion, I need to buy the oldest, sweetest, slowest mare that I can find’.” 

“Not a bad idea,” Hotch agreed, glancing around, wondering where said mare was at this very moment. There was red and white pinto sagging against the horse tether in front of the boarding house. She had a familiar Mexican blanket tossed over her back, and she was sleeping. 

“Her name is Rita. Short for Señorita. She's over there."

"I thought she might be yours," Hotch chuckled. 

"My second thought was, ‘Glad I wore my loose boots this morning’. I had that second thought when my heel came out of my boot, and my leg came free of that horse, and I tumbled ass-over-appetite into a pile of uncomfortable rocks.” 

“Poor child,” Hotch soothed. 

“I am never getting into another saddle as long as I live, just so you know.” 

“I’ll bet not.” 

“In short, I bruised my tailbone and my leg. I knocked my head on the ground a couple three times, ruined my favorite hat. I have got the strangest ringing noise in my left ear some mornings, but I am alive.” 

“So are you finally going to get rid of that dangerous beast? I have been telling you for over a year now that you need to find Bicuspid a good home,” Hotch scolded lovingly. 

“Get rid of him? Aww hell no. I’m going to hire a jockey, and enter that horse’s fleet-footed backside in a few races,” Doc grinned. “We’ll split the proceeds.” 

“Mm hmm. Exactly what would your Momma think of that?” 

“She would probably not approve,” Doc sighed unhappily. “Lucky for me, Morgan was up on the ridge and got to me quick. There were vultures circling overhead, eyeing me right closely.” 

“What did Morgan say when you told him what happened?” Hotch wondered. 

“Lord, wouldn’t you know it, he saw the entire damned incident? I was so embarrassed. He didn’t say a whole lot, but he was giving Bicuspid unfriendly looks for a couple days.” 

“Here’s the rest of your things, Mr. Hotchner,” the baggage man said as he wheeled up a sizeable set of trunks. Doc blinked at the extra trunks, and noted quickly that they matched the enormous steamer trunk on which he and Hotch were both seated. 

“You packed light this time,” Doc drawled, his curious eyes lighting on Hotch. Aaron grinned boyishly, rubbed the back of his neck, and glanced up the street towards Miss Penelope’s hotel and restaurant. 

“How is Miss Penelope getting along? Any chance of getting some biscuits?” Hotch asked as he tipped the train crewman, who touched his hat and got back inside the baggage car. 

“She’s better. It helps that she’s been very busy. She’s fixing to open again on Monday. Me and Morgan made her a new sign to put out front. She don’t know it yet. Don’t you tell her about it. It’s a surprise.” 

“I won’t say a word.” 

“How long are you loose for this time? You maybe could stay a while longer?” Doc asked hopefully. 

“I’m hoping you want me around for a long while, really,” Hotch murmured, standing up and pacing back and forth in front of Doc. The young man watched him, with cautious optimism taking root in his golden amber eyes. Doc leaned carefully back, and took off his hat to smooth his hair and fan his face. Hotch’s eyes got wide again. “When did this happen?” Aaron gasped, running one hand back through the inch-long, shorn-off sandy spikes which barely covered Reid’s scalp. 

“Racing across the desert with your buddy Bicuspid, I knocked my head on the ground a few times. Morgan couldn’t find the cuts for all the hair and all the blood. He sheared me like a sheep to find where I was bleeding from. Miss Emily said she gave me a hundred and fifty stitches. Can you see that many stitches up there?” he asked, tipping his head forward. 

“She was teasing you. No more than fifty of them,” Hotch answered, fingering the two jagged scars that ran along the back of Doc’s skull. 

“So your bosses in Washington, they’ve given you lots of leave this time?” Doc asked, sitting up again and studying Hotch carefully. 

“No,” Hotch murmured, ducking his head again. 

“Aaron? What did you do? Did they fire your ass?” Doc teased. 

“They didn’t fire me. I wasn’t misbehaving. I just… well, I missed you. That’s what it was. I missed you, and I wanted to see you, more than anything in the world. It was killing me, being away from you. I was sitting at my desk in my office when it came to me. I decided that I wanted to see you more than I wanted to continue being sent all over this country, chasing outlaws and in-laws and monsters.” 

“You resigned your job?” 

“I quit. Gave my notice. Packed my things. Sold my house in Georgetown. Here I am. You got room for me?” Hotch asked. 

Doc’s mouth split wide with a giddy smile. Then he covered his excitement with a tone of seriousness. 

“Well, we are right crowded at the moment, but I promise you can have your choice of bunk mates.” 

“Bunk mates?” Hotch questioned. 

“There have been a couple changes around the old place,” Doc murmured. 

“So you and Morgan said in your letters. But nobody was very specific.”

“Boulder City has had some departures, and we have had some arrivals, and some of those arrivals, they needed a place to stay, a roof over their heads, and a good soul or two to look after them till they were on their feet.” 

“Oh, Doc. What did you do?”

“Miss Penelope was all full up with eight motherless children, and two widows, and one old soldier in need of care. Miss Emily’s place was filled up too. There was the small matter of a few orphans that we weren’t able to find a place for with any other families. They’re kids, Marshal, and I wasn’t going to see them out fending for themselves in the world. Mrs. Paulson opened her home to several girls and boys. So did Mrs. Strauss. I opened my house too. Everybody who could did.” 

“How many orphans are you housing?” Hotch wondered. 

“Only one, but he gets to chasing around with Callie, and it’s like there’s seventeen of them pounding across the floors,” Doc confided. “I hear screaming. Help me up. Here they come now.”

The front door to Miss Emily’s boarding house burst open to both sides, allowing the strangler passengers from the train to enter, and allowing two children to exit. A small blond boy came chasing out. His face was broad with a mischievous smile. Callie was flying behind him, her braid whipping around her head as she took a sharp turn to avoid the wagon and horses crossing the street. The children crashed onto the wooden planks of the sidewalk and made more noise than an approaching army. 

“STOP!” Doc scolded. The two of children skirted around Doc and Hotch, dodging left, right, left again, before Doc put a hand on each of them. The children quieted down at once. 

“Miss Emily said she would give Callie violin lessons if you could get her a violin,” the boy panted as he pointed back at the boarding house. Doc winced, and so did Hotch. 

“Can I, Papa? Can I?” Callie begged. 

“Violin?” Aaron cringed.

“Oh God. Miss Emily wouldn’t do that to me, would she?” Doc whispered. 

“Violin?” Hotch repeated. 

“You sure you wanna stay?” Doc wondered. 

“I’m sure,” Hotch replied. 

“Jonathan Brooks. This is Marshal…” Doc started, then stopped. “This is Mr. Aaron Hotchner. He’ll be staying with us,” Doc added. Callie made a sour face. 

“Where’s he gonna sleep? In the barn?” she asked. 

“Calliope Reid,” Doc scolded tenderly. “We will make room for him.” 

“The barn sounds kinda peaceful,” Hotch smirked. “I’m happy to bed down in the hayloft." 

"I might just join you there when I need some peace," Doc agreed. 

>"You can call me Hotch,” Aaron said, giving his hand to the small boy. 

“I’m Jack,” the boy said, taking Hotch’s hand. Jack was between six and seven, with honey-brown hair cut straight across his forehead, a cute button nose, and the most soulful brown eyes. Those eyes said that Jack had seen and heard and experienced a lot in his short years. He was serious beyond his age. 

“Good to meet you, Jack,” Hotch said, his heart breaking with how much this Jack reminded him of his own son Jack, right down to the quick flash of a grin. “Callie, you have gotten taller since I saw you last,” Hotch added, patting her on the head. He didn’t want her to feel left out, but it was easy to see she wasn’t happy. Callie scowled at Hotch, and hid behind Doc so Aaron couldn’t reach her. She hugged Doc tight around the middle, nearly pulling him off his feet. 

“Be careful, Baby. I will fall and be stuck like an overturned turtle upside down on his shell,” Doc cautioned. 

“We’ll get you back up,” Hotch replied. “You get on this side. I’ll get on that side,” he said, pointing Callie to Doc’s right as he took Doc’s left side. Jack reached for Doc’s middle, tugging on one of his belt loops, smiling all the while. 

“Where are we going?” Callie asked. 

“Home,” Doc replied, adjusting his hat. “Soon as we can borrow a wagon to haul the Marshal’s trunks for him. Those are not going to fit on Rita. Hm, not the Marshal. I have to stop calling you that. Sorry. Let’s go talk to Miss Penelope, and see if she can help us out.” 

“Biscuits. Gravy,” Hotch murmured, heading forward along the sidewalk as if in a trance. 

Are you hungry?” Doc asked.

“Famished. Biscuits. Gravy,” Hotch repeated.

“Why don’t you two run on ahead?” Doc said, patting Callie and Jack on their heads. They took off in unison. Hotch watched them wistfully. 

“Looks like you got your hands full. No wonder Morgan is mad at you,” Hotch kidded him. 

“I wasn’t going to see the boy out in the street. It wasn't working for him at Miss Ruth's or Mrs. Strauss's place. He's a headstrong one, stubborn, obstinate. He reminds me of you. Him and Morgan have been fighting like two rutting rams. Maybe he will listen to you better." 

“It helps Callie to have him around? Helps to ease losing Sophie?” 

“Maybe a small bit. We go by the cemetery and put flowers on Sophie’s grave every Sunday. That makes Callie feel better too. What do you plan to do with yourself now that you’re a free man?” Doc asked. 

“Maybe I’ll take some time off and lounge around in the sun,” Hotch joked.

“Oh, sure. That’ll last,” Doc laughed. “You’ll be crazy with boredom in three days. We got to find you a job so you don’t lose your mind.” 

“Know anyone who might be looking for help?” Hotch asked. 

“Miss Emily’s saloon is short a piano player,” Doc teased as they progressed slowly along. “Seems Miss Jennifer paid part of the piano player’s salary with a non-monetary arrangement, and Miss Emily wasn’t going to do that for him, so he got all huffy and left her high and dry back in May.” 

“Sorry. I’m not musically inclined.”

“We could use a manager for the general store. I'm filling in there." 

“Sorry. I’m not sure that’s the best use of my skills.” 

“Mrs. Paulson is looking for a husband,” Doc grinned. Hotch frowned at him, squinting his eyes tight. “Maybe not the best use of your skills either?”

“No,” Hotch muttered. 

“You’re kinda choosy for a man in need of a job. What kinda skills you got?” Doc teased Hotch. 

“I’m a superior marksman, a skilled hunter and tracker, and I am steadily improving my horse skills.” 

“You ever considered becoming a sheriff?” Doc asked. “Boulder City sure could use a law man to keep the peace.”

“Hm,” Hotch commented quietly. 

“We’ll let you wear a big shiny star,” Doc cajoled. 

“That is mighty tempting,” Hotch admitted.

"You can shoot at troublesome people. I know how you'd like that." 

"Oh, you do know my weaknesses, don't you?"

"You’re a natural for this position. Don't make me beg. You have experience in the field of law enforcement,” Doc persisted. “You look good in a uniform.”

“I’m going to need a deputy," Hotch insisted. Doc knew right away where he was headed.

“Oh, I doubt that seriously. This place is pretty peaceful and quiet much of the time.”

“Only way I’m going to be sheriff is if you agree to be my deputy,” Hotch bargained. 

“Morgan would be a much better choice,” Doc offered. 

“I like Morgan, but it’s you or nothing.” 

“Boy, you’d sure be shocked and screwed if I said ‘nothing it is’, wouldn’t you?” Doc laughed out. “All right. All right. I will help you out if you need me. How’s that sound? But not Mondays or Wednesdays, because that's when the general store is open.” 

“Sounds like Boulder City might be a good place to settle down,” Hotch whispered.

“I’d love to have you here,” Doc whispered back. “Very much.”

“Where is Morgan?” Hotch asked as Doc reached for the door to Miss Penelope’s place. Doc fanned himself with his hat and pursed his lips, peering inside. 

“He’s busy courting Mrs. Todd,” Doc whispered as they ducked into the hotel foyer. 

“He’s…. did you say ‘courting’?” Hotch gasped, almost smacking himself in the face with the door. He could hear children laughing and playing in the dining room. Morgan's voice was heard above them, along with Miss Penelope's voice. 

"Settle down now. Settle down." 

"Cyril, honey, get your mitts off the biscuits until we're all settled." 

“Mrs. Todd was widowed by the cholera epidemic. Settled in with Mrs. Paulson till she’s on her feet again, or until Morgan works up the nerve to propose to her. He talked Miss Penelope into hiring her as the new desk clerk. Did I mention I bought the Walker ranch with the federal reward money? Paid off Mrs. Paulson’s debts for her too. I’m gonna give the Walker place to Morgan as a wedding present. Shhh, my little secret. Don’t you be spreading that around. Let’s go find Miss Penelope and get you some biscuits and gravy before you starve to death,” Doc babbled. "Sounds like we are just in time for dinner," he added, peering around the corner and smiling as he pulled Hotch along by the hand. 

_bye y'all_


End file.
